Love and Show Choir
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Dustin is by far the most ill-advised thing Will has ever done when drunk, and now they can't seem to get rid of each other. Will/Dustin.
1. Chapter 1

The sheets are black, he notices blearily. His head is hammering, his throat is too dry to swallow and he's all tangled up in crisp, cool black sheets. Who the hell has black sheets?

More details. There's a solid weight next to him, warm, bigger than he is, breathing slowly and evenly. There's a Bluetooth and a half-empty pack of spearmint gum on the nightstand, but by now, Will's already beginning to remember last night. He closes his eyes and does everything in his power to believe he can make it not be real.

He can't, and it won't be any less real if he doesn't turn around, so he does. He curls into the fetal position in Dustin Goolsby's bed and watches Dustin sleep and tries to rouse himself from his bleak, horrified state of shock.

He wouldn't have thought Dustin was the type to get this drunk. He hadn't thought _he_ would be, not after the promises he'd made to himself after that horrific fiasco with Emma and Sue, but it's summer and his phone's battery had been dead anyway and he'd thought he would be able to keep himself from doing anything monumentally stupid. And now he's staring at a naked, sleeping Dustin Goolsby and thinking in a detached sort of way that the man is near-unrecognizable without the perpetual sneer, and then, in a much less detached sort of way, _I had sex with a **guy?**_ and _I had sex with Dustin Goolsby?_ and _We can't have, I'm not into that, I wouldn't even know how, not that there's anything wrong with oh jesus god I slept with Dustin Goolsby **how did this happen.**_

He can tell himself that it wasn't sex, that it was just a machismo-fueled shoving match that somehow went _way_ too far, because there are dark bruises visible on Dustin's chest and scratches on his shoulderblades and finger-shaped marks on his hips, what Will can see of them above the black duvet that isn't covering nearly enough of him for comfort. _Holy mother of god, I did that?_ But he remembers now, and his stomach sinks a little more, because if that hadn't been anything but a fight gone awry, he wouldn't have bitten Dustin harder and scratched him deeper when Dustin asked him to.

He can tell himself he was dragged into it, that he'd just been along for the ride, because he remembers Dustin doing most of the work, remembers Dustin's hand wrapping around both of them and stroking and squeezing and remembers Dustin dragging Will on top of him, but that doesn't account for the way his stomach flutters and his body flushes warm when he remembers Dustin's voice hissing commands in his ear. He shivers in spite of himself, remembering Dustin's voice dropping into a register deeper than Will had known he could manage when he'd snarled _fuck, Schuester, right there, right **there**, come on, harder, you can do that harder, fucking give it to me._

He's hard, and that's completely unacceptable, and he's suddenly petrified that Dustin will wake up before he can grab his scattered clothes and escape. Dustin seems pretty dead to the world right now, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, not quite snoring, but nowhere near consciousness. Will wonders if he dares use the bathroom before sneaking out the door. He needs a glass of water before he can even begin to manage critical thought.

When he returns, half-dressed, Dustin is propped up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes, cringing at the light from the window. Will freezes.

"Morning, Schuester," Dustin mumbles.

There's no suitable response to that, at least not one that's coming to mind. Will clenches his jaw.

It takes Dustin a few moments to armor himself with his usual sneering, swaggering bravado, as he's obviously at least as hungover as Will is, but he's not about to let himself be seen without it for long. He sits up, giving Will one of those lingering, infuriating glances up and down. "Leaving already?"

"Don't." Will's voice is tight. He can't handle this right now. "Don't start with me, Goolsby. Just keep your mouth shut and I'll be out of here in five minutes."

Dustin shrugs, stretching, leaning back on his hands. A corner of the duvet is the only thing standing between Will and things he doesn't ever, ever want to think about again. "Nobody likes a sore loser, Schuester."

The nonchalance blindsides Will, so much so that he's not even sure what Dustin's talking about for a minute. "A sore loser? You think _that's_ what this is-" What does he even do with that? "This is not because of Nationals. This is because it's _you._ And I don't have sex with men."

"I do." Dustin watches him, serene as a cat. "And after last night, I'd have to say that you do, too."

"That wasn't sex." Will grinds his teeth. Somehow, this is an important distinction, but Dustin's derisive little snort would suggest that he's not buying it.

"_Really._ I don't know, Schuester, what do _you_ call it when two people get naked and get into bed and get each other off? 'Cause I'd pretty much call that sex."

"I don't sleep with men. And if I did, it wouldn't be with _you._" Will changes tack. "You tricked me into this."

"Did I?" Dustin seems vaguely willing to entertain this possibility, for a moment. "I don't remember, honestly. I'm not actually sure how we got started. You were pretty enthusiastic, though, I remember that much."

"_Don't._" If he repeats that enough, maybe it'll have some effect, though he doesn't even know what he's telling Dustin not to do. Dustin's still staring at him, largely expressionless except for that faint smirking, sneering, appraising look he always has. Will hates it for its unreadability, and he hates it even more because now he knows what Dustin looks like without it and he doesn't want to.

Finally, after an interminable moment, Dustin languidly rolls the kinks out of his shoulders and lies back down, folding his arms behind his head. "You need anything for the headache? Tylenol? Coffee?"

"No." Will wishes Dustin hadn't asked.

"Right." Dustin covers his eyes with one hand, blocking out the sun again. "See you, Schuester."

Will leaves, too exhausted to deliver the 'go to hell' on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Will's cunning plan of simply putting the entire Dustin incident out of his mind entirely is not going as well as he'd hoped.

It's not like he can talk to anyone about it. And it would help, really massively wonderfully help, if he didn't remember all of it, but he does. The only thing that's still fuzzy is who exactly initiated it, and Will is happy to pin that squarely on Dustin, though he knows he'd been guilty of starting the shoving match in the first place. What they'd even been arguing about, he doesn't remember. He doesn't recall what had provoked him enough to get physically violent, because it's _not_ that he's a sore loser. Twelfth in the country is nothing to sneeze at; the kids were _happy_, they'd laughed over their tiny trophy and hugged and gone off for the summer with huge smiles on their faces. Will doesn't give a shit about losing to Dustin, even after that signed t-shirt had turned up on his doorstep with some kind of gloating personal message from Dustin on it. He doesn't even remember what the message had been. He's been using the shirt as a dishrag.

There is nothing about any of this that doesn't bother him. He's never questioned his sexuality before, or at least he's pretty sure he hasn't, or if he has, he hadn't allowed himself to think about it for very long. And if he had to, if he was going to, why _Dustin? _The man is an absolute world-class asshole, smug and slimy and coldhearted, and Will has every right to loathe him even more than he already does.

That's why it bothers him that Dustin hadn't really done anything overtly offensive the morning after. What kind of asshole says good morning and politely offers a hangover remedy? An asshole who isn't being an asshole, that's what kind, and Will doesn't want to accept that Dustin Goolsby is capable of sometimes being kind of decent. Dustin Goolsby is not a good person, and Will has mostly convinced himself that that is what's at the root of his horror at all of this. It's not about Dustin being a man, although...no, it is kind of about that, he has to admit. It's not about sleeping with the enemy, it's not about them being rivals. He'd made out with Shelby before going up against Vocal Adrenaline last year, and that was all right, because Shelby at least had some concept of honor, or something. And he could hardly, in good conscience, hate Rachel's mother. And Shelby had been a fantastic kisser, which is anything but a useful argument in this scenario, because so is Dustin. The point is that no matter how sweet and hot and perfectly rough that first kiss had been, Dustin Goolsby is an awful human being.

Will swears to himself that every time he finds himself thinking of how Dustin's mouth had felt crushed against his own, how he'd tasted like scotch and spearmint and smelled like leather jacket, he'll remember how devastated his kids had looked when he'd walked into that hotel room. He'll remember how bravely they'd tried to be happy for him, and how lost Rachel had sounded, and how hard Mike had tried to smile, and how tightly Puck had hugged him, and he'll put Dustin and his ridiculous Batcave bedroom decor out of his mind for the rest of the summer.

He's not going to let it chase him away from his favorite karaoke bar, either, because that would be letting Dustin win. Perhaps he loses the right to complain when he smacks into Dustin there two weeks later, though, since he really should have expected it. He's just ordered a beer, and he nearly turns around and walks right back out.

"Jesus," says Dustin, sounding infinitely disgusted. "Calm down. I'm not going to touch you inappropriately."

"We're not talking about this," says Will flatly.

Dustin sips his scotch with a pointed arch of his eyebrow. "About what?"

"About anything."

"And I was all geared-up for a real heart-to-heart, too." Dustin rolls his eyes. "You're making a way bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. _I_ enjoyed myself. I mean, I think I did. It's still a little blurry around the edges." He shrugs. "Just take it for what it was and let it go."

The more blasé Dustin acts about this, the more it pisses Will off. It's not _fair_ that he's been agonizing over what this means for his sexual orientation, while Dustin doesn't have a goddamn care in the world. Will wants to punch the bored, above-it-all look off his face. He wants to kiss Dustin hard enough to make him whimper and grab onto Will's shirt.

"Take it for what it was?" He leans in, gripping the edge of the bar. "What was it, Dustin? You taking advantage of me? Both of us doing something incredibly stupid? What am I supposed to be taking this for, exactly?"

He can see some tension in Dustin's jaw; Will's clearly getting to him somehow. "I'm not disputing that it was _stupid._ We were both trashed. I just don't see what's getting your panties in a bunch about it, except for your little crisis of masculinity or whatever."

"It doesn't have anything to do with that," Will lies, face flushing. "You're a complete bastard, Goolsby. You've hurt my kids and you've tried to sabotage me and my club at every turn. Why the hell should I be okay with sleeping with you?"

Dustin's looking at him with a completely unreadable expression again, but the smirk is gone. "All's fair in love and show choir, Schuester," he deadpans. "And I was trying to be a gentleman about it. I would've made you breakfast if you wanted."

Will has absolutely no idea what to say to that. The idea of Dustin wanting to be friendly to him, with no ulterior motive, is just...uncomfortable. It feels wrong. "There are other things I'd rather you have been a gentleman about, but you weren't," he says darkly. Something's been bothering him for a while, and he sits down, since his beer is getting warm.

"Why did you hit on Holly?" he asks. "If you're so into men, why try to seduce her? You really didn't have any motivation except trying to fuck with me, did you?"

"Of course I was trying to fuck with you," says Dustin dismissively, because clearly this is so obvious as to be unworthy of mention. "Sue Sylvester put me up to it. She recruited your ex-wife and that pedo who sells weed behind the bleachers, too." He swirls his drink thoughtfully around in his glass. "I still probably would have slept with her if she'd been up for it, though. I mean, why not."

"Unbelievable." Will is seething quietly, for reasons he can't fully articulate. It's like the universe is concentrating all of its massive energy on just ruining his life in every conceivable way sometimes, and Dustin is the mouthpiece of the cosmos, casually discussing all the plans to destroy him. "Are you really that pathetic, Dustin? You're really that bent on making my life hell because I coach a rival club that doesn't even have a fraction of the resources yours does? Or is this some sick romantic fixation on me? Why would you do that?"

"Because it's all about _you._" Dustin snorts, a sharp, cutting little breath of derisive laughter. "Yeah. Everything I do is carefully calculated for the effect it's going to have on _you._ Every single person in Ohio structures their life around you and your whiny martyr complex, because you're _just that important_, Schuester. It couldn't possibly just be that your girlfriend was hot, and if she happened to get sick of you and your freakish infant hands, I wouldn't have minded being the rebound. I didn't really give a shit what Sue Sylvester wanted, I just didn't want to turn her down and risk finding a cheerleader's head in my bed."

Will's hands are itching to hit him, or shove him, or something, _anything._ He wants to grab the front of Dustin's shirt and drag him close until their noses touch, and he doesn't even know _why,_ because it wouldn't facilitate hurting him. He wants to take this outside. Instead, he finds himself fighting fire with fire.

"You didn't think my hands were too small for you the other night," he says, locking eyes with Dustin, seeing if it intimidates him. "You seemed pretty damn happy with them." And it does, it works, because there's an unmistakable flicker of alarm in Dustin's eyes before he recovers. When he does, though, alarm dissolves into heat, and Will's seen that expression on him before, that icy blue _it's **on,** bitch_ gaze.

"Are you kidding me? I had to do everything myself, don't you remember?" The corners of his lips twitch with vicious mirth, and his voice drops down sinfully low again, until nobody else can overhear them. "You couldn't even fit those hands around my cock, Schuester. Not that you tried. At least your mouth is useful for something. That bitemark's still there, you know. It won't go away. It hurt like a bitch the next day, but it felt fucking fantastic when you were doing it."

The sudden spike of heat in Will's stomach feels like it could knock him off his barstool, and he can feel his face flushing bright and warm. Goddamn, he should have expected something like this, _some_ way for Dustin to trip him up, and he'd be angry at himself for bringing it up and leaving himself open to it if he could focus on anything but making Dustin whisper 'fuck' like that again.

"Good thing your hands are big enough for the both of us, then," he murmurs, because it _is _a good thing; it had been amazing, Dustin's skillful fingers curling around both their cocks together and stroking slow and firm as Will had straddled him and left bruises in places Dustin's shirt only just managed to cover, catching skin between his teeth and tugging. "I held you to the mattress just fine," he recalls, thinking of how he'd pinned Dustin by the shoulders and made him gasp for mercy.

"I'd let you do it again." Dustin's eyes are so intently focused on him they could freeze breath. "I mean it, Schuester. Just say the word."

They both know damn well it had been a ridiculous mistake the first time, that Will's been protesting that mistake since he woke up the morning after they made it, and that there's no justification that can possibly make this a good idea. Will isn't even entirely willing to accept that Dustin isn't setting him up for some kind of sabotage or humiliation; it would be completely consistent with every single thing he knows about the bastard. But Will's never been known for making rational decisions when it comes to sexual partners.

"Meet me outside," he growls quietly, and oh, he _relishes _the way it makes Dustin flush pink.

The parking lot is empty of people, and a section is devoid of cars, just sparse gravel leading to a rusty aluminum storage shed behind the bar. Dustin approaches with some caution, but Will doesn't leave him time to react; he seizes Dustin by the front of his shirt like he's been wanting to do all goddamn night and slams him up against the wall, pressing against him to hold him there with body weight. Dustin, exhaling with a soft shudder, lets him.

Will kisses him, swift and deep and without any warning, and Dustin opens his mouth to welcome it, tongue sliding hot and rough against Will's as he grasps Will by the hips and digs his fingers in. Maybe they'll have matching bruises now, mirrored ones, Will doesn't care, because that scotch-spearmint-leather combination is assaulting his senses in the best possible way and he wants more. He has to reach up to kiss Dustin; it's not that he's never noticed before how much _taller _the man is, but it's never been relevant until now, when he realizes that the only thing enabling him to keep pinning this 6'4" slab of muscle against a wall is Dustin's permission. He presses in harder, one arm twining around Dustin's neck, the other reaching up to slide fingers through his hair, deftly working around the Bluetooth. Dustin's arms snake around his waist and chest and hold him nearly tight enough to restrain him, and he inhales sharply when Dustin bites at his lip, fingers tightening in the man's hair hard enough to pull. Large, strong hands slide warmly under his shirt, resting against the skin, and he nudges his knee between Dustin's legs in return.

Dustin breaks away, just enough to speak, still digging fingers into his skin. "Come back to my place," he breathes. "We're sober this time. It'll be better." He captures Will's lips in another kiss, but Will doesn't respond this time, verbally or otherwise.

_What the hell am I doing?_ They're sober this time and they're still doing this, even though they _know_ it's going to end badly; it _has _to end badly. Whatever happened to thinking of his kids, huddled on those hotel beds like puppies abandoned by the side of the road? Whatever happened to thinking of Holly, arms folded forbiddingly as Dustin stood far too close to her and whispered 'consider my offer' in her ear? Whatever happened to Sue Sylvester's League of Doom? It doesn't matter how sincerely he kisses, or how tightly he wraps his arms around Will's waist, or how good he tastes. Dustin's betrayal is already a foregone conclusion.

Christ, what _is _he doing?

"I can't do this," he says, taking a step backward. "It won't work, Dustin. You know that."

Judging by the look on Dustin's face, he hadn't known that at all. "What? Why the hell not?"

"Because you're a creep. You're a lying, cheating, manipulating scumbag." He doesn't take pleasure in saying that. Not really. He would have, yesterday.

He's never seen so visible an expression of frustration on Dustin's face, as he throws up his arms in complete bafflement. "Yeah? _And?_ This is not new information, Schuester!"

It's not, that's true, but willfully forgetting something for a while is almost as bad. Will's made a royal fuckup of things again, he's pretty sure of that.

"I can't, Dustin. I'm sorry."

Smug and slimy and coldhearted though Dustin Goolsby may be, it doesn't feel any better to drive away and leave him standing there.


	3. Chapter 3

Dustin's never been one for long-term relationships. He tells himself it's because he doesn't like to be tied down. Prospective romantic partners usually tell him it's because he's an insensitive workaholic douche who hates children like the Grinch hates Christmas, but he thinks it's about the same difference.

Will Schuester, of course, hadn't been a prospective romantic anything. Dustin has standards, for christ's sake. But it doesn't make the blow to his pride sting any less, and it's all the worse because he just doesn't _get_ it. Schuester knew exactly who he was dealing with when he'd ordered Dustin out behind the bar and pinned him against a wall. Why slam the brakes on at _that_ point? What a bizarre fucking time to have a crisis of conscience.

And there's nothing about Dustin that really _requires_ a crisis of conscience, is there? From Schuester's theatrically tormented reaction, one would think Dustin was on trial for war crimes or something. It's a show choir competition, for fuck's sake, and it's _over,_ and they don't even need to be rivals for the next few months before Dustin resumes trying to destroy him. It's just business.

It would probably be best, Dustin concedes, to cut his losses and simply avoid Will for the rest of the summer. And when competition season starts up again, he can just use this to fuel their professional rivalry and _really_ give Schuester something to hate him for. It's definitely best to stay away at least until his indignation cools off, lest he say something he'll regret. Nothing makes Dustin more uncomfortable than the thought of letting his rivals know what gets to him, _really_ gets to him, and he's already veered dangerously close to really letting his guard down around Will. He needs to back off and regroup.

He doesn't hate Will. He might pretend to, just for show, but he thinks Will is a worthy enough opponent, in his own stupid sappy way. And if he's honest with himself, he's jealous of him. It's jealousy mixed with a lot of grudging respect, and frustration, because Will's voice is enough to actually get him places, and Dustin's...obviously isn't, because nobody ever dropped a Broadway role into _his_ lap for him to just throw away. Will Schuester doesn't fucking _work_ for anything, he's just _lucky,_ and he has talent, and Dustin respects talent even if it sometimes makes him want to punch Schuester in the throat.

He's driving around without a real goal in mind, but as long as he's dwelling on the subject of his professional shortcomings, he finds himself drifting towards a little community theater in a modestly well-off part of town. This place is the whole reason he's stuck here in Ohio to begin with, and it's for that reason that he's avoided it altogether for the past couple years, but it's mostly empty right now and the receptionist thinks he's cute enough to let him in.

The stage is empty, too. There's a piano, for some sad reason, all alone in the corner near the wings, but there's no set, no show going on. Dustin remembers when he'd had this place packed to the rafters, bringing in more acclaim than this miserable little theater had ever dreamed of before, and the fuckers had let him go anyway. The least they can do is let him relive what passes for his glory days for a few minutes, with no audience, no orchestra, just the tinny little piano.

He sits down. The bench is covered in dust. If there's one aspect of performance he isn't tragically rusty on, it's this; the official Vocal Adrenaline pianist is worse than useless, and more often than not, he'd ended up shoving the guy off the bench and just doing it himself. He tests out a few keys to see how out-of-tune the piano is, plinking out some notes that are a lot more cheerful than he really feels, letting them build into something more graceful.

"...Goolsby?"

Schuester's unexpected voice startles the hell out of him, but he keeps his cool as he turns to stare. Why would _he_ be here? What would even bring him to some random little low-budget theater in the middle of Akron? These are all perfectly neutral, pertinent questions to ask, but what comes out instead is "Did you say something? I can't hear too well down here in my dark pit of lying, cheating scumbaggery."

He winces internally. That, as Shakespeare would say, was ill-done. It had been audibly bitter; it had made it obvious that he's still _thinking_ about last time they met, and that it's still bothering him. Will gives him an odd look, but his tone, when he responds, is surprisingly civil.

"I just came in to see if they were casting for anything here," he says, with a shrug. "I...had a falling-out with the director of the Lima community theater."

Dustin is vaguely aware of that little bit of gossip, recalling it having something to do with what sounds like the world's most ridiculous production of Les Miz, but he keeps his mouth shut, merely turning around on the piano bench to face his opponent. "They're not," he says. "I think they might be closing; I wouldn't really know." He glances out over all the fixtures that are beginning to fall into disrepair. "I used to work here. They don't keep directors around for long. Maybe their supply of gullible saps finally ran out." What _is_ it with him and never shutting up when he means to? He always ends up saying _something_ personal, something Schuester doesn't have any business knowing and doesn't care about anyway.

"I just wanted something to do for the summer," Schuester muses, starting to zone out of the conversation in that obnoxious way he has. Dustin rolls his eyes, leaning back against the decrepit piano.

"Let me guess, because you just miss your kids _so much_ and don't know what to do without them distracting you from the fact that you don't actually have any friends your own age. Am I close?"

What he thinks he really hates about Will Schuester, more than anything, is the way barbs like that never seem to faze him in the moment, but he'll pull them out and use them as self-righteous ammunition later. For now, he just shakes it off, snapping out of his reverie as if he hadn't even really heard Dustin.

"If they fired you," he asks, "why are you here right now?"

It's a fair enough question, and Dustin considers it for a moment, realizing that he doesn't really have anything to gain by lying about it. "Nostalgia, I guess," he says. "Not the good kind of nostalgia; the feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of nostalgia."

Schuester raises a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Surprised you'd admit to that. You're not as formidable when you have actual human emotions."

"I've seen you _cry_, Schuester. Don't give me that shit." Dustin's not about to put up with a lecture on feelings from a guy who gets the sniffles when he thinks about students. This is just getting ridiculous.

"Look," he says, "can we just...drop this whole arch-nemesis thing for a little while? I mean, don't get me wrong, I fully intend to destroy you and everything you hold dear in competition next year, but come on. It's summer. We don't have to work for three whole months. I don't know about you, but seriously, I can't keep up this level of scheming and plotting and general malice for 12 months out of the year. It's exhausting."

Sincere as he may have been, he can tell Schuester's not buying it. Smart of him, but it's demoralizing nonetheless.

"You know what, Dustin?" Will folds his arms. "Give me one damn good reason why I should believe you. It would be _exactly_ like you to lure me into some kind of trap with this. Last time we tried to have a friendly conversation as professionals, you told my kids I was abandoning them to move to New York."

That seems long enough ago that Dustin has to think for a second just to remember the details. "That was the _day before Nationals,_ Schuester. There was nothing friendly about that conversation. You should have known that. This is different. We're not competing for anything right now." Sure, maybe he isn't helping his case with his lack of remorse about that little stunt, but really, there _is_ a difference. "_Some_ of us can separate our personal lives from work. Novel concept, I know."

"Uh-huh." Schuester's staring at him with narrowed eyes, and god help him, Dustin can't help but find it hot. "I didn't know Vocal Adrenaline allowed personal lives."

He'll let Will think that was a decent burn; it's kind of adorable how pleased with himself he looks. "It does over the summer." Not that Dustin _has_ one to speak of, or else he probably wouldn't be trying to seduce Will Schuester, no matter how good he is in bed for an ostensibly straight guy. They're pretty much in the same boat, and they both know it. Neither of them has any real sexual prospects right now, or anything better to do this summer than sit on their asses eating cold pizza and watching So You Think You Can Dance, and as much as it pains Dustin that his life has come to that, at least this can be an exciting challenge. At least this gives him something to strive for, something he actually _wants_, even if he shouldn't.

"You're worried about your kids," he says, because it's always about the goddamn kids. "That they'll find out or something, or just that you're doing wrong by them by sleeping with the enemy. Let me tell you something, Schuester. _They won't care._"

"You don't know my kids," Will snarls, going from zero to threat-level-yellow in two seconds flat. When he's angry, he leans in, intimidates, advances, but Dustin doesn't flinch or back away. He wants Will to know he's relishing the closeness. "You don't get to tell me what would hurt them and what wouldn't. You don't give a damn about them."

If Dustin were angling for a punch in the face, he would point out that Will Schuester's kids are about the last people on earth who can judge anything, given that two of them were molesting each other in front of an audience of thousands and one of those nasal-voiced background singers nearly gave birth onstage at Regionals last year, but he knows that would be crossing the line. He wants to provoke Will, not drive him away for good.

"You're right. I don't. I don't have any kind of ill will towards them or anything. They just aren't _relevant_ right now." He moves closer, slow and confident, and Will lets him, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. "What's relevant is that you are a hell of a lot more attractive than I've given you credit for, and I keep thinking about all the things I want to _do_ to you. I want that ugly vest on my bedroom floor, Schuester. I want to remember all of it this time."

They're standing nearly close enough to feel body heat now, and he isn't being pushed away. Schuester had initiated this last time; he'd had second thoughts, sure, but Dustin knows what that smoldering-angry look means. They're both a little too good at reading each others' expressions, given how damn clueless Schuester usually is, and given the relatively short time they've known each other.

Dustin reaches out to slide a hand behind Will's neck, fingers winding themselves through the tight curls, and pulls him into a kiss, not so much rough this time as it is _thorough._ It's slow and insistent and deep and then deeper still, not enough to bruise this time, just enough to make breathing an afterthought. He doesn't want to rely on anger and heat and caught-in-the-moment momentum now, but maybe that's the only way Will can bring himself to do this, because he bites Dustin and grabs onto a handful of his shirt as if trying to rip it, tries to push him backwards again to make the edge of the piano dig into his skin.

Dustin stands his ground, because he won't let Schuester provoke him again. Not this time. This time, he holds the damn cards. He's going to take his time because he _can_, because it feels good to slide hands under Will's shirt and rest them there as he sucks slowly at the man's lower lip, because winning isn't satisfying when you have to concede even a little, and he doesn't want Will Schuester to see him lose his cool again. Maybe it isn't entirely truthful to say he wants to set their rivalry aside for the summer, because this _is_ a power struggle, in its own way. He pulls Will closer until their bodies are flush against each other, but he's not thinking of how to pull the rug out from under him, or how to turn this to Vocal Adrenaline's advantage, only of how badly he wants to feel more warm, solid muscle under his hands. He wants to make Will shudder and press against him and he wants those hands in his hair again, and Will obliges, even if he's still trying to make it hurt.

Dustin tilts his head to suck lightly just under Will's jaw, wanting to taste, and the only drawback to this is that it leaves Will's mouth free to whisper "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He trails a few heated kisses downward. "I'll be more considerate than you were. I won't leave any marks where you can't cover them up."

"That's not-ohhh." Whatever that complaint would have been, it trails off into a breathless noise of encouragement, and Dustin doesn't mind it when Will's hand clenches tight in his hair. "This isn't right. We can't do this _here_."

"We are literally the only two people in this building right now except for the woman at the front desk." His hands slide downward, hungrily mapping every detail as they go, and he grasps onto Will's ass to drag him closer still as he shuts him up for a moment with another deep, breath-stealing kiss. "We could have sex right here on the stage and still not get caught. I could blow you against the piano and we'd be fine."

He can feel the tension in Will's body, knows that suggestion is turning him on like wildfire, just like that whispered dirty talk in the bar, and a wicked, sharklike grin spreads across Dustin's face when Will murmurs "Is that an offer, Goolsby?"

"You want it to be?" If he drops his voice into that low, purring register and whispers that into Will's ear, punctuating with a light little nip to the earlobe, of _course_ he'll want it to be. Will closes his eyes, lips parting, and takes a long moment to catch his breath.

"Yeah," he says, and that smug, cocky look of his just isn't as effective when he's flushed and breathless and his clothes are already all askew, but goddamn if it isn't one of the hottest things Dustin's seen in a long time. "I think you'd look pretty good on your knees, actually."

"Please," Dustin snorts. "I'd still come up to your shoulder. You're a midget." But he does it anyway, pushing Will back against the piano with a hand flat on his chest and sinking to his knees, hands running down the backs of Will's thighs, and Will bites his lip and reaches behind him to grasp onto the piano and it makes something vibrate inside Dustin like a guitar string.

Will probably thinks this is some kind of victory, that it constitutes surrender when Dustin reaches up to cup the bulge in his jeans and unfastens them with nimble fingers and presses his lips to the strip of bare skin above Will's boxers. Of course he wouldn't understand the subtleties of a real power struggle. It's not about who's kneeling; it's about how he can make Will _react_, when he doesn't plan to let Will have the same influence on him. It's about having Will right where he wants him. It's about the sharp intake of breath when Dustin tugs Will's underwear down to his thighs and trails the tip of his tongue along the juncture between thigh and hip, and the choked little sound Will makes when Dustin's hand closes around his cock and strokes.

"Been a while?" he says, thumb sliding over the head just to wring out another needy little gasp. Will, eyes still closed, shakes his head, though it doesn't seem to be a confirmation or a denial, just a 'get on with it.' Dustin laughs softly, resting his free hand on Will's side, and takes Will's cock into his mouth, tongue curling around the head as he keeps lightly, languidly stroking. If he's honest with himself, he's _wanted_ to do this; he's thought about what Will would sound like, if he would keep pulling Dustin's hair like he's doing now, all of the little details. It's half power play and half genuine raw attraction, because he can't tell himself that his sexual fantasies about Will are just because he really wants to beat him at Nationals next year, but if that's what Will believes, Dustin's happy to let him.

Will is breathing something vaguely profane, one of his tiny hands cradling the back of Dustin's head, and Dustin takes him in further, resting both hands on Will's hips now with a hum of acknowledgment that makes Will tilt his head back and hiss through clenched teeth, speeding up the pace and sucking more forcefully and sliding his tongue along the shaft. His fingers dig sharply into Will's skin when Will's fingers twist in his hair; he lets his nails press in just enough to sting, and that seems to be what really makes Will whimper and grab onto the piano with white-knuckled fingers. "I'm close," he gasps, as if Dustin couldn't tell, and Dustin teases him with three long, slow strokes before resuming his rhythm, still clenching tight onto Will's hips. Will shudders hard when he comes, half relying on the piano to hold himself up, and that deep, breathless groan makes Dustin's cock strain against his pants.

He's not about to give Will the opportunity to ditch him again. He stands up with a single fluid movement and grabs onto his shoulder, pulling him in for another long kiss, making him taste himself. Will's tongue meets his with all the same eagerness he'd had before, and maybe he regrets last time or something, because he doesn't hesitate to trail his hand down over Dustin's chest and stomach and slip it into his jeans. Dustin bites back a gasp of pleasure, unwilling to give Will the satisfaction, no matter how badly he needs this right now. It's not like Will's stroking has any practice or finesse to it; he clearly hasn't gotten the hang of doing it from this angle, and for a moment the control freak in Dustin makes him want to grab onto Will's hand and _show_ him how it's done. He doesn't, because even if Will sucks at this, it's exactly what he needs, and he rocks into Will's hand with a barely-audible little growl, pressing his lips to Will's throat again as Will strokes faster and Dustin has to force himself to keep quiet. He can't keep from panting; that's the one thing he can't regulate no matter how hard he tries, and he's breathing raggedly into Will's shoulder and squeezing onto his bicep. _Now,_ finally, Will seems to have the right rhythm, and Dustin rewards him with a whispered curse and another needy arch of his hips, and by then it's a slippery slope because he can't stop himself from gasping out another _"fuck"_ when Will's hand twists just right, or a trembling little _"oh"_ when he squeezes a little harder. And then maybe Will deserves the same courtesy of a warning, and so he breathes "Just a little-_yes_-" and that's about all he can bring himself to do, because it seems to be enough. He comes hard, gasping, feeling as weak-kneed as Will had, and trying hard not to lean on him.

As fervently as he'd told himself Will wasn't going to get the better of him, it takes a long moment for him to pull his thoughts back together. He's better at acting matter-of-fact than he is at feeling it, and he hands Will a tissue while casually zipping his pants back up.

But before Will can turn to leave the stage, Dustin catches him by the arm again, spinning him back around and pulling him close one more time. "I want to see you again, Schuester," he murmurs, and he damn well means it.

Will scrutinizes him, as if debating who exactly has the upper hand here, and whether he ought to use this to his advantage. Finally, he pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper, scribbles a phone number on it and tucks it into Dustin's pocket. "Maybe I'll let you," he says, with a smirk Dustin has to admire, and walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

It's a week later, starting to get dark outside, when Dustin fishes that scrap of paper out of his pocket and calls the number. It occurs to him that he can't really fault Schuester for being paranoid, when he's half convinced himself that this is just some clumsy attempt to get close to him and steal Vocal Adrenaline's secrets. They ought to give each other more credit than that, or this is just going to end badly.

"Hello?" Will sounds politely confused when he answers, probably because he wouldn't have any reason to have Dustin on his caller ID.

"Schuester. It's me." Dustin kicks back on his couch, as if assuming as relaxed a position as possible will make him sound less like he gives a crap about the outcome of this conversation. "What are you doing right now?"

"Why do you want to know?" Lord, he's not just going to make this simple, is he. Dustin sighs. It's not fair if he has to _work _for it.

"Because I feel like cooking someone dinner, and this booze isn't going to drink itself. Come on. I'll make it worth your while."

He doesn't know what exactly Schuester was _expecting _when he gave Dustin his number and implied that Dustin was welcome to ask him out, but apparently, for some reason, this wasn't it. "What is this, a booty call?" he asks, and Dustin makes a face on the other end of the line, because what the fuck, does it _sound _even remotely like a booty call? Is this really just how Will's mind works all the time?

"You know," he says, "let's say it is. I'd be more comfortable with that, to tell you the truth."

"Then it's a date. I'll bring dessert."

Reverse psychology, Dustin thinks, as he hangs up. This guy is too easy.

True to his word, Will shows up in half an hour with a frozen cheesecake, and Dustin's made spaghetti. Will apprehensively glances around the apartment as if it might be rigged with a bomb. Dustin rolls his eyes and hands him a plate, sprinkling some cheese on top. "Sit down." He indicates the small dining room table with a jerk of his head, where he's set out a couple plates and napkins and generally tried to make it look inviting. He hasn't gone so far as to put out wineglasses, though; that would just be dorky. "What do you want to drink?"

"Whatever you're having," Will says, setting the cheesecake gingerly on the kitchen counter, so Dustin makes them both vodka tonics and serves himself some pasta. It's occurred to him that it seems to make Will really uncomfortable when Dustin does anything that isn't directly related to sex, which is really annoyingly ironic, since he also still seems to be trying to cling to whatever shreds of heterosexuality he can justify.

"I'd say that I wasn't going to bite you," he says, sipping his drink, "but under the circumstances, I can't really promise that."

Will seems to relax, because this is familiar ground, and it's not particularly intimate. "I thought you liked it when I did the biting," he says, eyes flicking down to where the bruises on Dustin's neck and chest have only just finally disappeared.

Half an hour later, they're flopped on Dustin's couch drinking Kahlua mudslides and watching an ancient taped copy of the Les Miz Tenth Anniversary Concert, talking about old musical triumphs from before they were rivals. They're not touching, exactly, just sitting closer than is polite, unconcerned about where their limbs sprawl.

"I bet you were the star of your show choir back in high school," says Will, getting that reminiscent look in his eye. "McKinley's glee club used to be _crazy_, back in the day. We were on top of the world. We won Nationals, you know."

"My high school never had a show choir," Dustin says ruefully, leaning back and letting his knee carelessly brush against Will's. "Or a football team, or class ranks, or a valedictorian. And we called all the teachers by their first names." He snorts. "Quaker schools."

For some reason, this cracks Will up. "You're _Quaker?_"

"Not anymore." He stretches, somehow managing to do it gracefully enough that his drink doesn't spill, and changes the subject. "So you got blacklisted from the Lima theater over this?" He indicates the screen, where the rebels are waving rifles around in clouds of fog. "Didn't you try to outsource your part to someone else, or something?"

"I was Valjean." Will shrugs, faux-modestly. Or maybe he means it to be genuinely modest, but Dustin doesn't really think he's capable of that. It's one of the things they have in common. "I thought a friend deserved it more."

"Touching. You're all wrong for Valjean, anyway." Dustin takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. "You could pull off Marius. I bet you have a good voice for it. Valjean's too old."

"Marius, huh?" This seems to mollify Will, who might otherwise have bristled at that. "I always did like that part."

"I played Enjolras in college," Dustin reminisces. It had been a tiny production, lower-budget than anything Carmel would put on, but in retrospect, it seems perfect. That was the last time he'd ever really gotten to perform for an audience, beyond just singing a few lines for his students to show them what they're doing wrong, or the occasional karaoke performance for bargoers who aren't paying attention.

Onscreen, Enjolras is belting out something loud and revolutionary. After a moment, Dustin joins in. _"Is this simply a game for rich young boys to play? The color of the world is changing day by day... Red, the blood of angry men! Black, the dark of ages past! Red, a world about to dawn! Black, the night that ends at last!"_

When it comes to joining in a song, clearly nobody has to ask Will Schuester twice. _"Had you been there tonight you might know how it feels / To be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight..."_

Loud as the TV is, they can drown it out without even really trying, and Dustin realizes that he's never actually _heard _Will sing before. He's heard _of _Will's voice, never actually heard it in person, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't impressed. Maybe a tiny bit turned-on, just a little, at that last, effortless long high note. He doesn't know whether that shiver down his spine is admiration or arousal, but judging by the way Will's examining him, it's mutual. "Maybe you should have kept that part after all," he says, and he isn't just saying it because flattery works.

They share the next few songs, trading parts back and forth, shouting at the television with mock revolutionary fervor and clinking their glasses together when the gunfire starts onscreen. By the time the music slows to something more sedate, they're both a little out of breath. Will leans his head against the back of the couch and turns to look at him, and Dustin doesn't break eye contact even as he reaches behind him to put his half-empty glass on the floor.

They lean in at the same time, with the same thought, crushing their mouths together, Will grabbing onto Dustin's shoulders and Dustin sliding his fingers through Will's hair. It's hard to breathe, both of them still a bit giddy with adrenaline and warm from the alcohol, and they can't devour each others' mouths without having to come up for air every few seconds, but what they lack in continuity they can make up for in fierceness, because Will is kissing him hard enough to bruise this time and Dustin won't complain about that for a second. Will straddles him, thighs bracketing Dustin's lap, and the next time they separate for breath Dustin pulls Will's shirt and vest over his head with a single movement. Will, not about to let that go without retaliation, unbuttons Dustin's shirt and shoves it off him without breaking the next harsh, clinging kiss, and Dustin pulls him closer, chest against chest, forgetting himself long enough to groan softly against Will's lips. "Is this more what you were expecting when I called you?" he says, hands wandering down to grab onto Will's ass as he rocks upward, grinding their hips together. Will sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, grinding back in turn.

"Pretty much," he pants, and leaves it at that, because there might be an appropriate time for a discussion of whatever the hell this relationship is, but it's not now. Dustin undoes Will's jeans, yanking them unceremoniously off him and arching his hips to somehow get his own off without having to push Will aside, and now he's no more able than Will is to keep himself from hissing with need when Will thrusts against him again. Will tries to slide fully on top of him, pressing him back into the cushions, but the couch isn't long enough for Dustin to lie down on and it's already hurting his neck. He indulges in one last long, deep kiss before pushing Will away enough to talk.

"Come to bed with me. Don't get weird about it." He's not even going to allow for a rebuttal to that. He gets up off the couch and pulls Will with him, and for a second it looks like Will might object, but he follows without complaint.

He strips nonchalantly naked and stretches out on the bed, beckoning Will with a jerk of his head and deftly divesting him of his boxers when Will joins him. He never _had _gotten a chance to just lie back and appreciate, and he rests a hand on Will's chest to keep him at arm's length for a moment while his eyes rove over Will's body, lingering on every bit of muscle. "How the hell do you get abs like that when you spend all your free time coming up with heartwarming teaching exercises instead of going to the gym?" he murmurs, fingertips trailing down Will's chest. "...Don't answer that. We have better things to be doing."

"Some of us are genetically blessed, Dustin," says Will, answering anyway with an affected air of saintly modesty. "I guess I'm just lucky."

"Damn right you are. You're lucky about everything." Dustin kisses him, not even sounding bitter about that, though it takes some effort. "Quit bragging and fuck me."

Will's already on top of him, legs tangled with his, licking and sucking sharply at his throat, before he bothers to question this. "Just like that?"

"What?" Anything that keeps Will from continuing to do that with his mouth is a crime right now, and Dustin resents him talking. "Yes, just like that. Come _on._"

"You're just going to let me." Will's lips travel downward; he remembers where those bruises had been, even if they've faded, and Dustin arches needily up against him because fuck yes, he wants Will to make it hurt again.

"_Yes, _I'm going to let you. You act like I'm forfeiting a contest or something. There really isn't any great symbolic significance to whose dick goes where." He spreads his legs further apart to settle Will between them, burying his fingers in Will's hair again to hold him where he is, not wanting to let him up. Eventually, though, he has to let go, reaching into the nightstand drawer for the lube without breaking any other contact. He presses it into Will's hand, leaning up for another lingering kiss.

"I-" Will seems to be at a bit of a loss, and of course Dustin hasn't forgotten that he's never done this before, because Will might as well be wearing a neon sign around his neck, but he'd forgotten what all it really entails to be new to this.

He sighs and takes Will's hand, turning it palm-up, and carefully spreads lube over his fingers. Will flexes them thoughtfully, looking up into Dustin's eyes. "I have to say, I'm surprised," he murmurs. "I guess when I thought about this, I thought it would be..."

"More of a struggle," says Dustin, finishing the sentence for him, because he knows. "Don't worry, Schuester. I won't start thinking you like me if you don't throw me against a wall every single time we do this." He grins, and Will smiles back in spite of himself as he pushes Dustin back onto the mattress.

"Yeah," he agrees, "that _would _be a pretty tragic mistake on your part."

His hands are clumsy at first, but Dustin doesn't tolerate clumsy. He grips onto Will's shoulders and runs his hand down Will's arm, guiding him, angling his body, _making _Will do it right. "You suck at this," he pants, but then Will's fingers twist exactly where he needs them and he rocks sharply up against Will's hand with a hiss of pleasure. "Do that again."

"Tell me I don't suck, and maybe I will." Will smirks wickedly, and Dustin groans.

"_Fuck_ you, Schuester. You suck at everything _but _this, then, now come _on." _He reaches back with one arm to hold onto the pillow, panting and swearing as Will keeps going, still squeezing hard onto Will's shoulder with the other. He grabs Will's wrist to stop him, still breathing hard, and drags Will on top of him, pulling him down for another clashing, combative kiss as Will thrusts into him.

"Still think I suck?" Will breathes in his ear, when Dustin arches up against him and gasps something pleading without even meaning to, and all Dustin can do is rake his nails down Will's back and grind back up against him in response, because he can't even make his vocal cords work to form a 'yes' when he's belying that with every shudder. He _hates _it when Will gets so goddamn cocky and competent, not least because it's fucking _hot, _and it shouldn't turn him on like this to have someone posing the very real threat of being able to throw him off-guard. He digs his nails into Will's back and grits his teeth, needing _more, _every nerve in his body wanting him to beg for it. "Harder. Come on, Schuester, fuck me _harder, _you can do better than that."

"Can I?" But Will obliges, doesn't try to play with him any further, because he wants it as badly as Dustin does. Dustin grips onto a handful of Will's sweat-damp hair and matches him thrust for thrust, growling rhythmic encouragement in his ear, "come on, yes, come _on, _fuck, _yes," _snaking his hand between them to touch himself as Will fucks him. Will's harsh, ragged breath against his skin makes him absolutely melt, and he only wishes for a second that Will were more vocal, because hearing that voice in his ear would shove him over the edge. In lieu of that, he kisses Will again, sucking hard at his lower lip, and buries his face in Will's neck as Will comes. That _sound _he makes, god, that is never going to fail to send a spike of molten heat through Dustin's stomach, and it only takes a few more strokes before he's shuddering too, his entire body tightening around his partner's and his nails leaving sharp crescent marks in Will's shoulder.

They look at each other, panting, wild-haired, for a long, long moment, and finally Will pulls away and rolls to the side. Dustin closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath.

"All right," he says. "We've found the one thing you don't fail at."

Maybe that wasn't the best thing to say right then, or maybe Will's humor receptors only function when he's aroused, because when he opens his eyes, Will's getting out of bed and searching around on the floor for his shirt. Dustin frowns. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Will says, as if it should be obvious. "That was fun, though. And hey, thanks for dinner."

Honestly, at this point, Dustin can't even tell if this is part of the game or not. He's not sure Will is sophisticated enough for that, which makes him think this is entirely serious, and that just irritates him. He sits up, lip curled with disdain. "Wow. You treat everyone you sleep with like this? No wonder you're so popular."

Will pauses, boxers on and shirt in hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, your reputation for manwhoring does precede you." Dustin shrugs lightly. "You probably don't have time to do the polite thing and stick around. It's cool, I get it. You want to take the cheesecake with you, too?"

"My reputation-" Will stops there, because that's not the issue here. He shakes his head. "Why do you care if I stay? I didn't think you'd want to cuddle."

"There is not going to be any cuddling. I care because it's _rude _to just roll off of someone and head on your merry way, that's why." It would take prolonged torture on the rack to make Dustin admit that he wants to enjoy Will's company for a while longer, but he doubts Will would want to hear that anyway, so it works out. He rolls his eyes and pats the empty side of the bed. "Come on. Don't be a dick."

"Since when do you care about rudeness?" Will folds his arms, but he seems to be softening a bit. "It's one of your few talents."

"I'm perfectly capable of caring when other people are rude to me," Dustin says, mock-affronted. Will considers this for a moment, fist pressed against his mouth to hide a hint of a smile, and finally tosses the shirt back onto the floor and slides back into bed.

"I'm not making a habit of this," he announces, giving Dustin a warning look.

Dustin smirks. "Of course not." He pulls the blanket up around them, and reaches over to switch out the light.

* * *

><p>True to his word, Will doesn't make a habit of staying at Dustin's place after their little hookups, because twice a week isn't a <em>habit. <em>He wouldn't call it a habit when Dustin sleeps over at his place, either, just like he wouldn't call it a _thing _of theirs to have dinner together and listen to music while drinking increasingly girly cocktails and then make waffles in the morning, even if they've done it more than once.

He's taking Dustin's advice very, very literally. He's taking this for exactly what it is-sex, food and light conversation-and not dwelling on it too much. There is no great symbolic meaning in any of this, and when Dustin says this is strictly a summer arrangement, Will's going to hold him to it. It can't work any other way. It simply isn't conceivable for them to carry this on into competition season, when Will isn't nearly naive enough to think Dustin wouldn't use it to his advantage. Sleeping with each other for fun would turn into sleeping with each other for set lists and blackmail material, and Will wouldn't put it past Dustin to tell the kids about it just to really screw with them. He's going to have to watch Dustin like a hawk once the school year starts, just to make sure none of this ever gets out. He's pretty sure it won't, though, when he thinks about it. Nobody at McKinley would be happy about it, to be sure, but the Carmel arts department probably has rules about their faculty fraternizing with the enemy, or something.

It's not that he thinks Dustin is irredeemable; he's gotten past that by now. Sure, the guy is kind of a slimeball, and he wouldn't know how to play fair in competition if the rulebook bit him in the ass, and he's hell-bent on destroying New Directions and everything they stand for. Sure, he sadistically tortures his students because he's bitter that they have everything he didn't. But for all his faults, he's not any worse than Sue, and Will's still tried to be the better person and work with her before, because it's the right thing to do. There's no reason to be willing to extend the hand of friendship to Sue, even after its been repeatedly bitten, and not give Dustin that same chance, except for the fact that Sue doesn't make him wonder uncomfortably whether bisexual is a label he's willing to accept. It's all going to be a moot point in September anyway, though, so he puts it out of his mind.

It's the first week of July when the water pressure in his shower gets screwed up somehow, and after one frustrating morning when it takes half an hour to get the shampoo out of his hair, he seriously considers driving to McKinley and using the showers in the gym until he can get it fixed.

Instead, as he's lying half-awake in Dustin's bed the next morning, he finds himself reasoning that he'd really rather just go with the easy solution here, the one that involves the least amount of effort. He nudges Dustin in the ribs. "Hey. Can I use your shower?"

It takes a few moments to get a response, whether because Dustin's asleep or because he's thinking about it, but eventually he mumbles some barely-comprehensible assent and buries his head under the pillow again.

Life feels pretty good this morning. It feels good to have a real shower, and the promise of waffles, and a whole day stretching ahead of him to just relax and enjoy. He hums as he washes his hair, and humming flows easily into singing. _"Now the promoter don't mind, / And the union don't mind, / If we take a little time, and leave it all behind, and sing / One more song..."_

From the bedroom, Dustin sleepily joins in, pitch-perfect despite the fact that he hadn't been awake enough to form a coherent sentence a couple minutes ago. _"Oh, won't you stay / Just a little bit longer? / Please, please, please, say you will, / Say you will..."_

Will can't help but grin, raising his voice louder as he rinses himself off. _"Now the promoter don't mind, / And the roadies don't mind, / If we take a little time, and leave it all behind, and sing / One more song..._" Dustin's voice harmonizes perfectly on every note, though he doesn't seem inclined to get out of bed anytime soon. Will repeats the chorus just for the hell of it, laughing a little, just to draw it out, and Dustin keeps pace. Will kind of wishes he'd chosen a longer song.

He wraps a towel around his waist and heads back into the bedroom to get dressed, and only then does Dustin actually bother to sit up, rubbing his eyes. "You know I have neighbors who can hear you, right?" he says.

"Do you actually care about that?" Will hunts around for his shirt.

"Not remotely."

The next time he stays over, Will's shower is still broken, and he's in a 90's mood. He leaves Dustin faintly snoring in bed and lets the water run nice and cool, because it's going to be a hot day. _"Snow is falling from the sky in the middle of July, / Sun was shining in my eyes again last night, / Alarm goes off without a sound, the silence is so loud, / Something isn't right..."_

He must have really worn Dustin out last night, because theres no response from the bedroom on the second verse, and Will is oddly disappointed. He shrugs it off, because he's on a roll, and keeps singing. On the third chorus, he raises his voice a little louder, and maybe that's what jolts Dustin awake, because he finally joins in. _"By the time I reach your door, I cant take anymore, / I just happened to be in your neighborhood..."_

_"I'm the one who gets surprised, I can't believe my eyes, / Your alibi's no good..."_

Will tosses the shampoo bottle into the air and catches it to use as a microphone as they shout out the rest of the verse.

_"Whatever happened to the world? Whatever happened to that girl I thought I knew? It just can't be true, I guess I'm losing you..."_

"You're going to get me evicted," Dustin hollers from the bedroom, and Will dissolves into snickers.

They _do _make a habit of this, singing together in the mornings, whatever Will happens to be in the mood for. He hasn't found a song yet that Dustin can't keep up with, and there's just something about it that buoys him for the rest of the day. It's just singing in the shower, like everyone in the world does, nothing special, but having a partner just makes it something else. It seems to make Dustin more cheerful, too, even if it wakes him up earlier than he otherwise would. He's less insulting, more laid-back, less inclined to make Will eat the burned waffles and keep the better ones for himself.

Will's in the mood to be naughty this morning. He turns the shower on hot, soaping himself up, and grins as he sings. _"Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on, / Livin' like a lover with a radar phone, / Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp, / Demolition woman, can I be your man?"_

He can hear Dustin cracking up from the bedroom, and somehow that just makes it better. He turns it up a notch. _"C'mon, take a bottle, shake it up, / Break the bubble, break it up..."_

"I'm not singing that," Dustin protests, but Will's not going to let that stop him.

_"Pour some sugar on me, / Ooh, in the name of love, / Pour some sugar on me, / C'mon, fire me up, / Pour your sugar on me, / Oh, I can't get enough..."_

The shampoo bottle is seeing good use as a microphone again, and Will's really putting his heart into it, making every word drip with sex, just for kicks. He pauses, hearing the bathroom door swing open, and Dustin pulls the shower curtain aside and pokes his head in. "At this hour, Schuester? Seriously?"

Will shrugs angelically, but he doesn't get the chance to justify his song choice. Dustin slides into the shower and pulls the curtain closed again, resting his hands on Will's hips. Will swallows, stomach fluttering in a way he's not sure what to do about. "What are you doing?"

Dustin shrugs, nonchalant as ever, slipping his arms loosely around Will's waist from behind. "What can I say? That was almost as hot as it was ridiculous."

Anything that deviates from their usual pattern throws Will for a loop, because there's nothing about what they're doing that Will isn't still getting used to. But he thinks he could get used to this, whatever it is, Dustin pressing warm, slow kisses to the back of his neck and burying his mouth in the curve between neck and shoulder and sucking heatedly as his hand slides down over Will's stomach. Will closes his eyes and leans back, breath catching in his throat, and reaches back blindly to tangle his fingers in Dustin's hair, angling his hips upward before Dustin even takes him in hand. Dustin strokes him slowly, keeping his other arm wrapped tight around Will's waist and holding him closer, pulling him back until their bodies are completely melded against each other, and Will doesn't know what to do with his free hand but he wants to be touching Dustin somehow in return; he feels _bad _that this is all one-sided. He wants to make Dustin whisper profane things in his ear like he usually does, because it's strange having him so quiet, nibbling at the edge of Will's ear without any words, squeezing Will's cock and stroking harder just to make Will gasp.

He leans back further, bracing himself on the wall with one hand, and Dustin takes the hint and pushes Will closer to it, still stroking, still kissing his neck. Will pulls Dustin's arm tighter around him and shifts his weight, leaning back, until Dustin's cock is between his legs, the tip pressing against his balls, and Dustin is shivering against him and melding closer still. Will leans his head back to rest it on Dustin's shoulder, hips arching into Dustin's tight grip, and Dustin rocks slowly against him, cock sliding between Will's thighs, exhaling warm ragged breath over Will's damp skin. They fall into a rhythm, with Dustin stroking and thrusting and Will rocking back against him, his hand clenching into a fist against the wall, and god, none of this would ever have occurred to him for a second but it feels so _good. _It's so unbelievably good, warm and wet and shuddering and he never thought he would enjoy the feel of Dustin's arms around him like this, but right now, it's fantastic. He slams his hips into Dustin's hand again with a choked, needy gasp, and Dustin rests his forehead against Will's shoulder with a deep shudder, pushing him to the wall until there's barely any space and thrusting harder and faster and giving Will's cock another squeeze, and that's enough to make Will see stars as he comes with a deep, raw growl. Dustin responds with a helpless moan, pressing into Will one last time and coming too, stroking him lightly until both of their aftershocks fade.

Will's entire body feels limp, and he turns to lean his back against the wall for support as the feeling comes back to his limbs. He looks up at Dustin, neither of them really in any hurry to say anything, because there isn't a whole lot _to _say. Will sure as hell doesn't know what hes supposed to think about this, let alone how to put it into words.

Dustin kisses him before he steps out of the shower, a long, slow kiss with the water starting to get cold, arms around Will's waist again, and Will lets him. He rests his hands on Dustin's chest and just kisses back, tilting his head to let it deepen, until neither of them can breathe and they finally separate.

"...I'll go make coffee," Dustin says finally, because one of them has to break the silence somehow, and he seems to want an excuse to get out of the shower. He disappears back into the bedroom, leaving Will to stand there under the cool spray, staring through the curtain at the door.

He can't place what's making this feel so strange, and it's making him jittery. Dustin's kissed him like that before, and it hadn't disturbed him then and it shouldn't bother him now, except that it's different.

Every single thing Dustin Goolsby does, every word, every mannerism, has a _smirk_ to it, this indelible disdainful sneering quality that distances him from the peons he's deigning to talk to. Will's gotten used to it by now; he's never liked it and he never will, but he can put up with it because it's just who Dustin is. That kiss hadn't had that smirking quality. That kiss had been quite possibly the only sincere thing he's ever seen from Dustin.

He's not sure if this is a good sign.


	5. Chapter 5

Dustin starts preparing Vocal Adrenaline's set lists and sketching out choreography ideas at the beginning of August. It's pretty late to be leaving it, given the sheer amount of work it's all going to require, but he'd wanted to actually appreciate his vacation for a while, and then this whole thing with Schuester has been going on, and that's been taking up more time than he expected. As long as he has September's rehearsal schedule meticulously drawn up by the time school is in session, he thinks he'll be all right, but he doesn't like cutting corners. Second place is not going to cut it this year. It hadn't been good enough last time, either, but he'd let the kids be happy about it anyway, because maybe there's something to the idea of cultivating loyalty instead of fear. He's not going to say it _works_ for New Directions, since twelfth place is just pathetic, but he supposes he might as well try supporting his kids a tiny bit more and terrifying them a tiny bit less. A little Stockholm syndrome never hurt anyone.

Will's probably not doing anything yet, given how fond he is of just leaving everything to the last goddamn minute and winging it and not even having any choreography at all, but Dustin doesn't actually know what Will's got planned for this year. He hasn't tried to find out, partly out of courtesy, and partly because he's concerned that Will would get suspicious and break things off on the spot if he did. Usually, Dustin encourages his image of reptilian treacherousness, since it's really pretty accurate, but this is the one time he's actually not trying to take advantage of anything, and he would like some credit for that. He doesn't want to lose this over something he didn't even do.

But then, it's August, and that means he's going to be losing this soon anyway. It's not easy to put that out of his mind, but work is a good distraction, and he's been trying to think of some other ambitious project he can take on to keep his mind off the idea of just...not seeing Will anymore. He tells himself it wouldn't have been the same anyway, because he spends half his time during the school year sleeping in his office at Carmel, and he doesn't have time for crap like singing shower duets and making waffles when he's got a nationally-ranked show choir to run. Vocal Adrenaline _doesn't_ allow personal lives during competition season, and if he has to turn himself into a soulless automaton from September to June, then that's what he'll do, because this is the most prestigious job he's ever had and he's not going to let some fling with a straight guy jeopardize that.

He's been debating whether he should enjoy the rest of this month as much as he can, or whether he should start backing off now to ease himself into it, and then he gets irritated with himself because that shouldn't even _be_ a question, because he shouldn't _care._ It shouldn't hurt when he kicks Schuester's ass to the curb in September, or when Schuester dumps him first, whichever happens, because he shouldn't be invested in the first place. It's just that competition season had seemed so far away when they'd started this, because after weeks of 24/7 rehearsal, a whole summer with nothing to do had felt like an eternity.

And he'd never meant for it to turn into this. It was supposed to be sex, not...whatever the hell this is, not letting Will genuinely make him laugh, not wrapping around him in the shower and kissing him and realizing he doesn't want to let go.

He keeps thinking about that, and it unsettles the hell out of him. He'd considered breaking it off altogether after that, just flat-out telling Will to fuck off, or doing something awful to make Will sever ties with him, so that Dustin wouldn't be tempted to kiss him like that again. He justifies it by telling himself that Will obviously doesn't want feelings involved in this either.

It doesn't stop him from letting Will through the door with margarita mix and cookies the week after that weird shower incident, though, and business continues as usual. It would seem that his fabled steely self-discipline doesn't actually extend to anything except his ability to forgo sleep and food in favor of rehearsal. He pretends to be asleep when Will starts singing the next morning, though, and then he pretends it doesn't make something twinge in his chest when Will looks so disappointed over breakfast.

He lightly jostles Will's shoulder as he clears the dishes, just being playful, not because he's actually affected by Will's sad green puppy eyes or anything. Will gets up to help, gathering the rest of the silverware and putting it in the sink, but he doesn't let Dustin leave the kitchen. He catches Dustin's arm, pulling him back, and Dustin waits with a little thrill of curiosity.

"You have some strawberry sauce-right there." He reaches out to swipe his thumb slowly over Dustin's lower lip, and Dustin's pretty sure he doesn't have any strawberry there at all, but he's just going to go with this, because Will has this way of just exuding slow, steamy sexuality from every pore when he wants to, like he's emitting pheromones or something, and whenever he decides to do that, logic can just go ahead and take a backseat. He curls his tongue around Will's thumb, drawing it into his mouth, and Will's eyes light up with something wicked. He lets his thumb slip from between Dustin's lips and reaches up to cup his cheek, pulling him down for just the promise of a kiss, until their foreheads rest against each other and they're breathing the same air. Dustin hasn't touched him yet, because he feels like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, somehow. Will doesn't usually initiate this, and when he does, it's usually because he's angry. This is new.

"You're up to something," he says, finally resting his hand on the small of Will's back to pull him closer.

Will bites gently at Dustin's lower lip, pressing further, winding his way into a real kiss, pushing past any resistance until their tongues twine together and Dustin's hands are under Will's shirt again because what the fuck, two whole hours without feeling Will's skin against his is apparently too long now.

"Why do you say that?" Will murmurs against his lips.

"Because you never kiss me without slamming me against the nearest vertical surface first. This is the first time making out with you hasn't put me at risk for a concussion. What are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything." Will reaches behind him for the jar of strawberry puree on the counter and dips a finger into it, and as wary as he is, Dustin can't keep his body from tensing in anticipation. Will trails his finger along the underside of Dustin's jawline, down his throat, and leans in to lick it away, sucking every last trace from his skin. Dustin thinks this absolutely counts as 'playing at something,' but his knees have gone weak, and maintaining a healthy degree of skepticism about this suddenly seems like a really stupid thing to do when he can be unzipping Will's pants instead. Will keeps moving steadily downward, sucking _hard_ at the hollow of Dustin's throat and nipping sharply at the skin for good measure, and Dustin's barely keeping his hands steady as he shoves Will's clothes aside, just wanting to be _touching_ him. Will groans against him and pulls Dustin's shirt over his head, and Dustin's reluctance to take his hands off Will long enough to toss his shirt aside is driven out of his mind when Will bends his head and catches a nipple between his teeth, tugging without a hint of gentleness.

Dustin swears virulently and pulls Will closer, not knowing whether to kiss him or rip his shirt off or demand that he do that again. "Are you trying to make me drag you back into bed for the rest of the day?" he pants, his hand finding its way into Will's jeans again and stroking with a fast, steady, _need you_ rhythm. Will presses his face into Dustin's neck with a sharp intake of breath.

"You want to?" he asks. It doesn't have the tone of a hypothetical question, but neither does it sound like a 'yes please,' and Dustin backtracks even as Will's hand teasing at his cock through his pants makes him tremble.

"I'm not _going_ to." He's grateful that that seems to be the end of talking, as Will takes him in hand with that same urgent rhythm. There's no finesse from either of them, no more scheming, at least not on Dustin's part, just plain simple _want you to come for me_. Will, not usually vocal, gasps Dustin's name as he climaxes, and Dustin, usually profane enough to put a sailor to shame, doesn't say anything, just buries his mouth in Will's neck.

Dustin's not going to kiss him this time. He's learned his lesson about _that._ He coolly regards Will, who's looking expectant and breathless, and turns away after a moment to wash his hands and toss Will a damp paper towel. "That was fun," he says.

If Will's disappointed, he doesn't show it. "What made you think I had some ulterior motive?" he asks, frowning as he straightens his clothes out.

"I told you. You never start anything unless you're pissed at me. Usually there's biting involved, too."

"There was," Will rightly points out, gesturing toward the red marks on Dustin's chest. Dustin's glad he doesn't have any meetings with the Carmel administration this week, because that mark on his throat is going to be purple for a while and none of his shirts can cover it up.

"I'm not mad at you," Will continues. "You just seemed...preoccupied. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

That is not something Dustin hears a lot of. He can't remember the last time he did, actually, which is why he wants to believe Will actually means it. Will can be manipulative; Dustin certainly knows that much, but he's also a pretty crappy liar, and he seems sincere right now. But Dustin's not the type to just fall all over himself any time someone claims to care about him, and he's supposed to be easing off on that shit anyway so it'll just be a clean break at the end of the summer. He opens his mouth, considering an appropriately flippant answer.

Will doesn't give him the chance. "I guess I should get going," he says. Before Dustin's little twinge of disappointment can register, Will squeezes his shoulder and leans in for a last brief, unexpected kiss. It's almost affectionate. It's definitely the closest thing to affectionate Dustin's seen in a long time.

_Fuck it,_ Dustin thinks, and cups Will's face in his hand to kiss him back, rough and sweet simultaneously. Detachment can wait until September. 

* * *

><p>They don't cuddle after sex; they never have, because Will doesn't seem interested and Dustin's not about to try it and risk getting laughed at. They do have pillow talk down to an art, though, lounging in bed with the covers tangled around their hips and just talking about whatever random stuff suits their fancy. They're still avoiding the subject of work; there's a tacit understanding that discussion of the glee clubs is off-limits, lest one of them let something slip that gives the other an unfair advantage. When Will actually brings it up, even in a fairly innocuous context, Dustin can't entirely conceal his surprise.<p>

"Do you ever do any kind of teaching exercises at all?" he asks. "Just...team-building stuff, that sort of thing? I'd think it would help, if you want your kids to work as a cohesive unit and everything."

Dustin snorts, because the idea of needing coaching advice from Will Schuester is almost insulting, and he doesn't know what the guy's getting at here. "First of all, I'm not a teacher. Second of all, my kids are already a cohesive unit. They don't need exercises for that. They do what I tell them. If you discipline them enough, they'll work however you want them to work."

He's well aware that real educators tend to be horrified by his coaching methods, and he's expecting some kind of outrage, but Will merely turns to give him an inscrutable look. "You _are_ a teacher," he points out. "You're certified. You're technically as qualified as any of the other faculty at Carmel."

"What's your point?" It's true, but that doesn't mean Dustin mentions it to people when they ask what he does for a living, and he's not sure how Will even knows that. "They didn't hire me to teach; they hired me to coach Vocal Adrenaline. Just because Sue Sylvester's certified to teach phys ed doesn't mean she calls herself a gym teacher."

"I just can't believe that you don't care about those kids even a little bit," Will says, and this is really, truly, literally the last thing in the world Dustin wants to be talking about right now.

"What do I have to bribe you with to get you to change the subject?" he demands. Maybe he can get Will to take a hint, for once.

"You know, you keep going on about how I don't rehearse enough or lay out the set lists far enough in advance," Will continues, barreling ahead whether Dustin wants him to or not, "but you don't seem to get _why._"

"That's because I don't care," says Dustin flatly.

"It's not all about the competition. Not all the singing we do is supposed to be finetuned for an audience. Most of it is just...confidence-building. Some of it's just for fun. I know you can't comprehend the idea of doing anything that's not going to directly affect your club's chances of winning, but you do understand how therapeutic singing can be."

"I'm kind of tuning you out right now," Dustin informs him, stifling a yawn. "Just so you know. Poke me or something once you're done talking about this."

"I did this exercise once." Will soldiers doggedly on, and Dustin is paying attention in spite of himself, even as he turns his back on Will and pulls the sheets up around him. "It was about...self-esteem, about recognizing what you hate most about yourself and just owning it. Taking something that causes you pain or self-consciousness and putting it out there so that you can see how little other people care about it."

Dustin doesn't respond, because he doesn't want to encourage Will to keep blathering about this, but he has to wonder exactly what Will's getting at. His curiosity is ever so slightly piqued, though he's still considering trying to distract Will with another round of sex.

"I had the kids think about the one thing they would change about themselves if they could, and put it on a t-shirt, and wear it when they performed for the school."

Privately, Dustin thinks that's just as cruel as anything he would do to his own students, in its own way. He's not about to say so, though. He'll never get Will to shut the fuck up if he does.

"I want to know what would be on your shirt."

That makes Dustin turn around and take notice. Of all the directions this stupid conversation could have taken, he wasn't expecting that one. He doesn't know just how offended to be, but he's offended nonetheless.

"There wouldn't be anything on my shirt," he says, "because I'm your colleague, not your student. I wouldn't do any of your exercises if you paid me."

"I made my own shirt to wear with them," Will says. "So did the guidance counselor."

"That's touching. I still wouldn't have joined in."

_"Hypothetically,"_ Will persists, propping himself up on one elbow and settling closer, until Dustin can feel his body warmth and sense the outline of his muscles beneath the sheets. Somehow, Dustin thinks that this is kind of a dirty trick, and he would ordinarily approve, but not right now.

"What did you put on your shirt?" he asks, because if Will's going to make him answer, it's only fair. Will looks slightly sheepish.

"Well, I mean...it wouldn't have been appropriate to put anything really personal on it, you know, because they're students, but, uh. They're always making fun of my chin, so I put 'Butt Chin.'"

Dustin remains stonefaced. "Are you kidding me?"

"It made sense at the time."

"You're building this up like it's some kind of deep, personal, empowering thing, and you put 'Butt Chin.' Does your chin actually cause you serious psychological pain? I mean, do you lie awake at night praying for your chin to un-indent itself so that you can live a normal life?"

"All right, fine," Will concedes, holding up his hands. "It wasn't completely in keeping with the spirit of the exercise. That's not what we were talking about, though. I asked _you._"

"If teachers get to cop out of it like that, then I'd put 'Too Attractive To Be Taken Seriously' and be done with it." He resents the fact that he's actually going to be thinking about this now, though. He's not sure what an actual example of a good shirt slogan would be, but he's not going to ask Will what the kids had put on theirs. It would be useful to know their weaknesses, and in the context of this conversation, he could probably get Will to tell him without arousing suspicion, but he honestly doesn't want to. It would needle at his conscience if he did. He hates that.

"You don't get to cop out of it," Will says, "and trust me, Dustin, you have _plenty_ of other faults you could put on that shirt. There has to be something you really, really don't like about yourself. I know there's _something_ you aren't a complete narcissist about."

"Not really, no." Nothing that would fit on a shirt, anyway. When Dustin thinks about the things he doesn't like about himself, they're things he's failed to _do_, not things that he _is._ 'Not Good Enough' is too vague, and too raw, not something he's going to just admit out loud. Not even to himself, let alone for the entire world to see. "I already own everything you don't like about me. And you need a better slogan if you're going to make me come up with one. I could help with that."

"I'm sure you could." Will lies back down, one arm under the pillow, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Dustin doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He doesn't want a heavy conversation about their deepest insecurities, and he doesn't want to be forced to admit things about himself that will make Will think even less of him than he already does. He closes his eyes, feeling suddenly weary.

"How about 'Unwilling To Reciprocate Blowjobs?'" he suggests, because damned if Will's going to make him actually be serious about this. "I'm not sure if your chest is broad enough to make it fit on the shirt, but it's definitely a more serious fault than your face-ass."

Will's face suggests that he's trying to keep from smiling, even if he doesn't laugh. "That's not fair. I reciprocate."

"No, you don't." Dustin smirks, turning his face into the pillow to hide his vague sense of relief. "There is no end to the filthy things _I_ would do to you if you'd let me, and you're all 'I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.'"

Even if Will's offended, he can't not laugh at that. "You're not getting off that easy, Dustin."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Now what are you going to do about it?"

"Come on." Will snickers, and his smile is kind of infectious, even if Dustin suspects he really hasn't managed to escape the conversation successfully. "Okay, fine. How about 'Poor Man's Sue Sylvester,' for you?"

"Hey," Dustin protests. There's a part of him that wants to just accept that, just to satisfy Will and be done with all of this, but...that just hits a little too close to home, and he can't let it go. "I am not the poor man's _anything._"

He can feel Will's eyes on him, and it's not comforting to have him leaning so close now, no matter how warm he is. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?" he murmurs.

"Oh, fuck you." It isn't enough to have handed Schuester his weakness on a silver platter, apparently; he has to get defensive about it, too, just to add insult to injury. He clenches his jaw, restraining himself from saying anything else.

"I think you're overreacting," says Will, but he sounds uncertain now. "I was just kidding. And come on, you're not exactly the only person in the world who hates not being the best at things."

"That's not the point. The point is that we should have been done with this when I told you I didn't want to play this stupid game." Even if Will's right, even if 'Perfectionist' and 'Scared of Mediocrity' are cop-out slogans in their own right, he hates that he's let this bother him, and that in and of itself is what _really_ bothers him. Nothing Will says is supposed to get to him like that. It isn't supposed to _work_ that way. "You're not big on paying attention to what other people want, though, are you? It's always about you. You can fit 'Self-Absorbed Prick' on a shirt, right?"

"Yeah, if you can fit 'Bitter, Sadistic Asshole' on yours." Will's angry now, and the stab of regret that Dustin feels isn't enough to keep him from laughing disdainfully.

"I would wear that shirt. Because I _own_ that. Everyone knows that about me. I don't give a shit. _You_ have the self-awareness of a sheet of cardboard. You think you're some kind of selfless saint because you're just all about giving back to the community and shit, and you just care about your kids _so much_. And you justify everything you do by telling yourself it's 'educational,' when really, it's just you doing whatever the fuck you feel like at the moment and dragging everyone else around you into it because you want an audience."

"And that makes you better than me, Dustin?" Will gets right up into his face, and if this were any other argument, Dustin would be shutting him up with a kiss, but that's not going to happen now. "You make children cry because you're jealous of them, and that makes you feel like a really big guy, but _I'm_ the prick here? Owning it doesn't make it okay."

"We're not talking about me, Schuester. We're talking about you." He never agreed to talk about himself. It isn't _fair._

"You don't get to tell me what to talk about," Will grinds out. "That's how you work, though, right? You can dish it out, but you can't take it? You can abuse everyone else all you want, but _you're_ off-limits."

"That's bullshit," he snarls, but he knows it's not. Not exactly. He'll let people rip into him all they want as long as they stick to topics he doesn't care about, as long as he's _prepared_, but he doesn't let people blindside him. He feels like he's slipping and scrambling for footing here, and he doesn't know what to do.

"So why exactly are you doing this, then?" he demands, saying the first thing he can think of to deflect the attention off him and back onto Will. "Let me guess, you think you can turn me into a better person, and I'll discover the joys of teaching and learn to love my kids and stop working them so hard, which will give your team a better shot at Nationals, but I won't care because I'll have learned that there are more important things than winning. I'm your project. Right?"

"Quite frankly, Dustin, I wouldn't expend that much effort on you. I don't care that much."

Dustin can handle everything else they've said to each other, but that feels like a backhand across the face, and it shows. He doesn't have a rebuttal to that, and the only thing that mitigates the pain in his chest is the way Will looks like he instantly regrets the words. They stare at each other, realizing too well that they've both gone too far.

"You know what?" Dustin says. "I think you've overstayed your welcome in my apartment, Schuester."

"I didn't-"

"_Out._ Don't let the door hit you in the ass." There isn't a single crack in his steely-eyed sneer, though he's out of practice enough that it takes effort to put it on now.

"_Listen_ to me," Will snaps, standing his ground and doing absolutely nothing to disprove the accusation that he doesn't care what anyone else wants. "I didn't mean that, all right? I was pissed. I said something I shouldn't have, because I wanted to provoke you. It isn't true."

Dustin wants to believe him, but he honestly doesn't know why he should. It's safer not to. "You don't _have_ to care," he says, because what the hell, why not twist the knife himself, too. "I mean, _I_ don't. You're just a professional nemesis who happens to look good naked."

It is to Will Schuester's eternal credit that he doesn't bring up the shower incident, or the kiss that had followed, or any of the other things Dustin's done in the past couple weeks that completely prove that statement false. Maybe he hadn't taken any note of them. Maybe they're just all in Dustin's head, and Will's completely oblivious to any uncharacteristic tenderness that might be going on. Or maybe he's just being a decent guy and he doesn't want to mock Dustin for having actual feelings.

"You're not a project," Will says, with infuriatingly reassuring gentleness. It's probably the best thing he could have said, even if that's really not saying much, because it's kind of completely beside the point. Dustin sighs, trying to decide whether this conversation is worth continuing.

"Then why are you doing this?" he says finally. "I mean, beyond the fact that I'm gorgeous and fantastic in bed. That never holds anyone's interest for this long."

Will looks like he might have had some kind of canned answer prepared for that. Instead he pauses, and really thinks about it, and Dustin hates himself a little for the way the anticipation makes his heart pound a little faster, not least because they're still pressed close enough together that Will can probably feel it.

"I don't know," he says. "Somewhere along the line, I started actually enjoying your company."

Dustin snorts, and it feels more like actual, helpless laughter than his usual sneering little huff. "You're such a sap, Schuester."

The thing is, he doesn't even know whether he means that sarcastically or not. This is, after all, the guy who practically bursts into tears in public when he thinks about his students growing up. For Will, a statement like that is really kind of damning with faint praise. But for the two of them, just given how they operate, it's...a little bit touching, maybe. Dustin has to admit he probably doesn't deserve any better.

"I always liked talking to you," he admits. "I mean, I usually only bothered when I was trying to mess with you, but I was always glad to have a reason to talk to you."

Will grins. "Aw, Dustin, did you have a crush on me? That's so _cute."_

"Fuck you," Dustin mutters, but he means it with affection this time, and he punctuates it with a kiss, cradling the back of Will's head and pulling him close. Will's already pressed warmly against his side, and they fit nicely together, really nicely, when they finally separate and Will rests his head on Dustin's pillow and drapes an arm across his chest. If he moved over a little more, he'd be able to put his head on Dustin's shoulder, but that would be a bit much to ask right now, and this is more than enough for Dustin. He never does this anyway; he's not a cuddler, but this is...good. Weird, unexpected and good. He runs his fingers through Will's hair, and after a moment, decides to keep them there, sifting gently through the stiff curls.

"If I had one of those shirts," he murmurs, when they're both almost on the verge of drifting off, "it would say 'Nothing Special.'"

For a little while, Will doesn't say anything. His arm tightens gently around Dustin. "That's not true."

"What would you know?" Dustin exhales slowly and closes his eyes. "Anyway. You asked."

Will traces his fingers idly back and forth across Dustin's chest for a while, apparently lost in thought. "I guess if I was being honest with mine," he says, "it would probably say something like 'Careless.'" He laughs a little, unusually self-deprecating. "Or I guess I could go with 'Manwhore,' but I couldn't wear it in front of the kids."

"I'm not disputing that one." He still thinks there are better things Will could put on that shirt. He thinks 'Self-Centered' would be a perfect one, or 'Sappy Twit,' if he's going to be really uncharitable, but he won't say any of that out loud. He gets the feeling Will doesn't do much analyzing of his own issues. Dustin's not much for it either, but at least he's aware of the particular ways in which he can be a magnificent asshole, because he's usually doing it on purpose.

"I didn't mean to hurt you when I brought up the exercise," Will murmurs, sounding half-asleep. "I just wanted to get to know you better."

That would never have occurred to Dustin, and he blinks up at the ceiling, honestly surprised. It's...flattering, actually. Kind of endearing. And, when he thinks about it, unnecessary. "You already know me."

"Do I?" Will looks curiously up at him.

"Better than most people." That speaks more to Dustin's inability to make anyone _want_ to know him than anything else, but it's true nonetheless. "I think it's mutual." He's not presuming to say he knows Will better than most people do, but he knows Will at least as well as Will knows him, and that's something.

Will shifts a little closer, eyes drifting shut again. "I think you're right."

"I'm always right." Dustin lets out a breath of quiet laughter and lets himself fall asleep, too.


	6. Chapter 6

By mid-August, Will's got his lesson plans mapped out and he's starting to think about strategies for competing. He has to wonder if the teams are going to be randomized this year like they were last year, if they'll be up against Vocal Adrenaline for Sectionals or Regionals or if they'll be able to avoid that until the end.

He's certainly not thinking about this whole Dustin thing in the long-term, even when he finds himself wondering just how Dustin would react if New Directions _did_ knock Vocal Adrenaline out of competition before Nationals. He's not sure how seriously Dustin really takes them as rivals, but he knows Dustin just tends to talk about Nationals like it's a foregone conclusion that his team will be there, because for Vocal Adrenaline, it always _has _been. Will's been thinking about borrowing some of Dustin's more obvious strategies, in terms of rehearsal schedule and more intricate choreography, because surely he can do that without resorting to putting the kids on IV drips and working them until they drop.

The problem is that it just isn't quite as satisfying now to think of crushing Vocal Adrenaline and moving on to Nationals without them to contend with. It's still satisfying, to be sure, but there's not nearly as much pleasure in it when he's aware of the fact that it would put Dustin's job in jeopardy, and when he's come to actually care about that. As Dustin had pointed out himself, he wasn't hired to teach. He doesn't have anything to fall back on if Carmel gets rid of him.

Well. It is what it is. Neither of them is going to back down; they'll both be giving it everything they've got this year, and may the best man win. Dustin's certainly not going to be sacrificing any of his competitive edge for Will's sake.

This isn't the kind of thing to be thinking about right now, though, at five in the morning when it's barely light out and Dustin is curled warmly around him, arm wrapped tight around his waist from behind, breathing slowly and evenly against the back of his neck. Will might have objected to being the little spoon, had they been awake when they'd wound up in this position, but right now, it feels nice to just bask in it. This relationship is built on a lot of unspoken agreements, and one of them is that they don't bring up the subject of Will's sexual orientation. Dustin, who swings enthusiastically both ways, doesn't have a lot of patience for Will's questioning and doublethink and delicate balancing act, but he also seems to be afraid of scaring Will off, and he anticipates the kinds of things Will's comfortable with and doesn't ask any more of him. He's only complained once, and he'd been facetious about it, but sometimes it does make Will think. It's not like anyone else is ever going to know about this. It doesn't make Will like women any less.

He drifts off again, leaning back against Dustin and letting Dustin hold onto him a little tighter in his sleep. When he wakes again, it's late in the morning, sun streaming through the windows, and Dustin's actually beaten him to the shower for once.

_"I woke up this morning and the sun was gone, / Turned on some music to start my day, / And lost myself in a familiar song, / I closed my eyes and I slipped away..."_

Will stretches luxuriously, making himself comfortable in bed and grinning as he joins in the chorus.

_"It's more than a feeling-"_

_"More than a feeling-"_

_"When I hear that old song they used to play..."_

There's nothing like a classic to sing at the top of his voice in the morning to put him in a good mood, and it's late enough that they're probably not even bothering the neighbors with it. He's missed doing this. He hadn't been sure why Dustin had stopped, but there had been a few days where he'd found excuses to avoid it, or simply not bothered at all, and Will had been a little worried. His own shower is working again, and he really doesn't need to use Dustin's at all anymore, but singing alone isn't the same. He lets Dustin take the last chorus, with the difficult high note, and Dustin doesn't disappoint.

Dustin comes back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist, whistling absently. "Shower's free," he says, but Will thinks it can wait a little while. He pushes the covers aside, propping himself lazily up on one elbow.

"Don't get dressed," he says, glancing at the towel. "Come here."

He wonders if Dustin's ever going to stop looking wary when Will initiates things. Surely he's learned by now that Will's not just doing it to get something from him. Still, Dustin immediately obliges, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"What are you thinking?"

Will moves aside and tugs on Dustin's arm until he's back in bed. Dustin tosses the towel on the floor, smirking lasciviously, his wariness gone.

Will has never really let himself appraise Dustin, the way Dustin so often does to him. He knows Dustin finds him attractive, and it's mutual-Dustin hardly needs anyone else to tell him how good-looking he is, because he does quite enough acknowledging of that on his own, but it's still undeniable that he's gorgeous. Will's not blind. His appreciation just isn't as overtly sexual as the way Dustin looks at him and touches him, because it's like he has a brake mechanism in his brain that he engages every time his thoughts turn in that direction. His eyes always skim over Dustin's body, never linger, and maybe-just once-he should try actually _looking._

"Seriously," Dustin murmurs, "what are you thinking?"

Will runs a hand slowly down his side, over his hip, acutely aware of Dustin's eyes on him, and of the anticipatory tension in Dustin's body. He's never had a problem touching Dustin, or even looking him in the eye while doing it, but this is different. Even if his instinct weren't to compare and contrast, he can't help but feel a little insecure, because Dustin's built like a Greek god, and his competitive nature certainly isn't because he's compensating for anything. Will's abs are a lot nicer, though, so he holds onto that.

"You were saying I never reciprocate anything," he says, pressing his lips just above Dustin's navel, nuzzling against shower-damp skin. "I thought I should fix that."

He can feel how much that thought turns Dustin on, hear him letting out an uneven breath and swallowing hard, and knowing that makes Will flush with want. "Yeah," Dustin says, his voice husky with arousal, "it's about time." He softens that with a hand on Will's shoulder, steadying him.

Will wraps his fingers around Dustin and strokes him until Dustin's leaning back into the pillow and whispering "Come _on,_" rocking into Will's hand. Will doesn't think he can articulate what it is about this that he finds so hot, because it's not about having Dustin at his mercy, like it might once have been, and it's not about what he's about to do, and maybe it's a little bit about how stunning Dustin is when he's naked and pleading, but that's not all of it. He remembers that encounter in the theater, and just recalling it is enough to make him half hard, but he remembers how Dustin hadn't even hesitated for a second to get on his knees and suck Will's cock. It hadn't meant anything to him, it hadn't been submission or surrender, he'd just _enjoyed_ it, he'd _wanted _to do it, and he'd made sure Will wanted it even more.

He slides his mouth over Dustin's cock, unsure how much he's supposed to try to take in at once, what he should do with his hands. He anchors them on Dustin's hips and slowly explores with his tongue, letting himself be guided by Dustin's reactions. He's always secretly liked Dustin's tendency to give orders and keep up an obscene running commentary during sex, but now more so than ever, because he can use guidance like "god, yes, keep doing that" and "slower, not quite so-yeah, like that, just like-_fuck_." It helps to have Dustin's hand in his hair, because he's careful about it, careful not to move too much or thrust into Will's mouth or anything Will couldn't handle, even as his voice grows thicker and more breathless and his free hand grasps a fistful of the sheets. "_Fuck_, Will, that's perfect."

Will almost stops at that, almost looks up at him, because he doesn't know which part of that stuns him more-being called by his first name, or the fact that the infamously-never-satisfied Dustin Goolsby just called something 'perfect.'

He'll demand an explanation for that as soon as his mouth is free, but he's not cruel enough to stop now, when he knows how close Dustin is. He swallows around Dustin's cock and digs his nails into his hips because he knows Dustin likes it to hurt, and Dustin's hand clenches tight in his hair as he comes hard, gasping something incoherent, only just barely managing not to arch upward.

Will spits into a tissue and throws it away, and even while breathless and recovering, Dustin manages to roll his eyes. It's only for a moment before he pushes Will back onto the mattress and pins him by the shoulder, leaning down to kiss him, already stroking him to full hardness, and as badly as Will wants to let him, he puts a hand on Dustin's chest just to stop him for a minute. "'Perfect?'" he says, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't think you believed in perfect."

"What?" It takes Dustin a minute to remember what he'd said. "It's a figure of speech. I was caught up in the moment."

"Sure." Will grins at him, just to make Dustin kiss him harder to shut him up. Dustin slides down his body, sucking a faint bruise onto Will's hipbone, licking a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock, and Will leans his head back with a moan. Dustin is better at this than he'll ever be, and he has this way of holding onto Will and still encouraging him to move, of using his tongue in ways Will would never be able to replicate, and it's fantastic. He hums something around Will's cock, possibly music, possibly just a vibrating moan of pleasure, but it pushes Will over the edge with a fervent groan, and he can't resist pressing up into Dustin's mouth. He holds tight onto Dustin's shoulders through the aftershocks, as Dustin languidly licks around his shaft.

Dustin slides up to lie next to him, moving in for a brief, tender, almost-chaste kiss, tracing his tongue along Will's lower lip. Will flops back onto the mattress, exhausted. "Really, though. Perfect?"

"For christ's sake, Schuester." Dustin looks somewhere between amused and exasperated, and that's another thing Will's got to address.

"We've been doing this for three months, Dustin. I think it's okay to be on a first-name basis now."

Dustin looks over at him, and from the expression on his face, Will wonders if that isn't a more controversial idea than he'd thought. He doesn't know why Dustin seems so resistant to the idea; even when they hated each other, Will still hadn't had any qualms about addressing him by name.

"I've been thinking," Dustin says slowly. "Suppose we keep going with this."

It doesn't entirely surprise Will that Dustin would suggest that. It makes him nervous, because he truly can't tell if Dustin's suggesting this on the spot or if this had been his plan all along. It bothers him because he knows he _should_ have more faith in Dustin by now, and it makes him feel guilty.

"I'm not sure about that, Dustin. I just...I don't think it would work."

"That's exactly what you said when we made out at that bar," Dustin says. "You were wrong then, and you're wrong now. I'm sure you're going to give me some excuse about how I can't be trusted and it's too dangerous and I'm a lying scumbag and all that other shit, but let's face it, Will, if I haven't done anything to sabotage you by now, I'm not going to."

"That's not proof of anything," Will points out, because he can spot at least three gaping holes in that logic. "You haven't sabotaged anything because I don't _have_anything for you to sabotage yet. I don't even have a tentative set list for you to steal."

"I'm not-" Dustin breaks off, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. "I'm just curious. Are we taking _any_ of this into account here? This whole...whatever we're doing?"

"What do you mean by 'taking it into account?'" Will narrows his eyes.

Dustin appears to be choosing his words carefully. Will can't help but think of the contrast between this and the breezy, careless bravado of Dustin's 'hey, let's forget about the glee clubs and be summer fuckbuddies' proposal of a few months ago.

"I'm just saying," he says, "that maybe we should reevaluate our original agreement, what with the fact that we actually _are_enjoying each others' company in ways that don't necessarily involve nudity. Although don't get me wrong, the nudity is awesome."

Will can read between the lines. The part of him that's still wary is being eclipsed by the part of him that feels like a dick. "You're saying you have feelings for me, and that'll keep you from taking advantage of this to win."

Something about the phrasing of that makes Dustin clam up immediately, his expression closing off. "I'm saying that we're both having fun, and if you think about it, there's no reason to give up getting laid on a regular basis. We can give it a test run for one more month. If it's not working, we end it before Sectionals and we're all good, no harm done." There's that breezy tone again, but now that Will knows it's an affectation, it sounds different.

Regardless of what Dustin's motives might be, that's logic Will can get behind, because at the heart of it, he _doesn't_ want to give this up yet. Practically, it sounds like a good idea, but when he thinks about going through an entire school year without speaking to Dustin, except for a few hostile words when they see each other at competitions, it feels _lonely._They've spent so much time with each other now that everything about that scenario just makes his chest feel hollow. Dustin's wrong about Will lacking friends his own age; he has plenty of other adults to talk to, but...nothing quite like this. He hasn't had anything like this since Holly, and he hadn't wanted to give that up either.

He's going to give Dustin the benefit of the doubt. Even if it does end badly, maybe some of this will have been worth it anyway.

"Until Sectionals," he says. "My showers do get pretty boring without you, Dustin."

Dustin looks at him, not quite comprehending. "Yeah, but I said-"

"Before Sectionals. I know. I'm seeing your month and raising it another month." It's a spontaneous gesture of goodwill, because he's starting to realize now that if Dustin is just faking the obvious feelings he won't admit to, he's one hell of an actor.

That warm smile of Dustin's looks pretty genuine, too. "Deal," he says. "Until Sectionals."

* * *

><p>Will doesn't doubt his decision, even when he looks out at his kids' bright, shining faces in the choir room, watching them eagerly read over the sheet music he's handed out and clamor excitedly about how this is their year, this is the year they take everything, this is the year they stomp Vocal Adrenaline into the ground. It's easy to get caught up in that, because as much as he's come to like Dustin's company, it's nothing compared to this. There's nothing like the joy of seeing his kids happy and motivated and believing in themselves, and he <em>knows<em> they can do this. He wants them to have everything he had. He wants nothing more than for them to know what it feels like to be on top of the world at Nationals.

"You know what we need?" says Puck. "We should have, like, a dartboard. For morale. With pictures of all our competition."

"How would we do that?" Rachel wants to know. "I'm not dismissing the idea, I think it might have some potential motivational benefit, but would we have group pictures of all the choirs who made the top ten last year? Where would we get them?"

"I don't know." Puck shrugs. "I just wanted to throw darts at something. We could use headshots of the coaches."

"We don't even know what most of them look like," Kurt points out. "I mean, have _you_ ever seen the coach of the Portland Scale Blazers?"

"That's what Google's for," says Tina. Will's not liking the direction this conversation is taking.

"I'm sure it would be easy to find a picture of Dustin Goolsby," says Rachel, with a hint of steeliness. "Vocal Adrenaline is our _main_ concern. They're the ones who really need to be on our dartboard."

_"Guys."_ Will holds up his hands, slightly troubled by the bloodthirstiness. "We aren't putting _any_ of our competition on a dartboard. There are better ways to motivate ourselves. Come on."

"I'm totally doing it anyway," he hears Puck mumble under his breath, as he turns away, and Mike and Finn nod encouragingly. Will sighs.

This is fine. He can work with this. They're just enthusiastic, that's all, and that's good. They're going to need enthusiasm to beat the competition, and the competition _does_include Dustin. Besides, he's fairly certain Dustin would find it hilarious that the kids wanted to put him on a dartboard. He won't be mentioning it, though.

He's drawn up a stricter schedule for rehearsal this year, and he's making the choreography tougher, but the kids don't complain. They _want _to work harder, and it makes pride well up inside him when he sees them trying so hard.

"Do we still have Sunshine Corazon to worry about?" Finn asks, a couple weeks later. Rachel grimaces.

"She's still with Vocal Adrenaline. I don't know what kind of competition shape she's in, given the way they _abuse_ her, but she did end up staying here and not getting herself deported after all. You should hear some of the stories she tells about Goolsby. They're _horrible._"

"Guys." Will's just going to cut that off right there, because he doesn't want to hear it. The less he knows about that, the better. "Come on. Let's get back to work."

"I heard he threatens to have their pets killed if they slack off," Kurt chimes in. "If you're late to rehearsal once, he just breaks a limb or cuts off a toe. If you're late three times, Fluffy sleeps with the fishes."

"That's not true." Will rubs his eyes. "Really, guys, I mean it."

"Would you really put it past him?" Rachel folds her arms. "I wouldn't. Vocal Adrenaline crushes souls."

"We're not focusing on Vocal Adrenaline right now. We're focusing on _us._ Now let's go."

The next time he sees Dustin, though, he has to ask. "You've never killed anyone's pet, have you?"

"What?" Dustin makes a face. "Why not just ask me if I tie women to railroad tracks while twirling a mustache? Of course I don't kill pets."

Will lets out a sigh of relief. "Good. I swear, you wouldn't believe some of the crazy-"

"I mean, why would I need to? Just the threat works fine, trust me. Nobody's ever found out what happens when they're late to rehearsal, because they all show up ten minutes early just to be safe."

As increasingly convinced as Will is that there is something very wrong with any school board that would certify Dustin as a teacher, it doesn't mean he wants to hear his kids badmouthing him, citing urban legends about Vocal Adrenaline as fact, making him sound like some kind of barbaric criminal. He can't _deny_ that Dustin is tyrannical to his students; he's perfectly well aware that the kids of Vocal Adrenaline are terrorized to within an inch of their lives and that their rehearsals are probably in violation of some child labor laws, and yet every time he hears one of his kids talking about this, an instinctive _he's not like that _rises to his lips. He always has to remind himself not to say it.

It comes to a head about three weeks into September, on a day when nothing is going right. They've never rehearsed this hard this soon, and Will hasn't been doing as many fun exercises. He's not working them too hard, certainly no harder than Shannon works the football team, but it's a departure from the norm, and maybe the kids aren't quite as eager to put in extra effort as they'd seemed. Today, they're grumbling about it, and he keeps having to raise his voice to get their attention. Finn keeps stepping on Sam's feet and Santana's already gotten into a shoving match with Lauren, and after two hours, even Rachel is whining about wanting to go home.

"Just half an hour more, guys," Will pleads. "We haven't gotten it right yet. Your timing is off, and I don't know who it is, but someone's really flat on the second line of the chorus. Can't you hear it?"

"No," Quinn snips. "I think it sounds fine. We have over a month until Sectionals. Why do we have to get it right _now?_"

This is met with indignant agreement, folded arms, surly glares at Will. "I have to get home and shampoo my cat," says Brittany.

Is there something he's just not seeing? Is he really being unreasonable about this? "What's the matter with you guys?" he demands. "You're being _lazy._ We need to step up our game if we want to win this year, and you're complaining about having to put in some effort. I really thought better of all of you."

"There's effort and then there's _this,_" Kurt says. "You've had us staying later and later every day this week, Mr. Schue. It's not even October yet."

"Yeah," Finn says, "is it gonna be like this all year? I mean, is it just going to get worse from here? We have football practice to worry about, too. We can't keep doing all this extra stuff."

"We _have_to do a little extra," Will insists. "You're the ones who are always worrying about Vocal Adrenaline beating us. This is how we beat them."

"What," Kurt snaps, "by turning _into_ them?"

"I sense IV drips in our future." Santana flops into a chair, folding her arms. "No wonder he never lets us say anything bad about Goolsby anymore."

"Or maybe that's because I think we should be above insulting our competition," Will says, because even if he weren't seriously concerned by Santana's too-accurate implications, it's true. He's trying to set a good example for them, that's all. "Maybe we just disagree on what we need to do if we want to be competitive, guys. Maybe you don't want to make the top ten this year. That's fine. But standing around complaining about having to work hard is not productive."

"I didn't know we were all about _productivity_," says Kurt.

"I thought you were proud of us even if we didn't make the top ten." Mercedes gives him a baleful, betrayed look. "I thought we were doing this because we _love_ it. Not because we want to beat everybody. I didn't think you cared that we didn't win last time."

"Did something happen over the summer, Mr. Schue?" Mike furrows his brow, earnest and concerned and too insightful for comfort. Will's starting to feel backed into a corner, and he doesn't know what to say to any of this. How do they know? How _much_ do they know?

And how much has Dustin rubbed off on him, anyway? The kids have a point, and it's troubling. He looks away, rubbing his forehead.

"You guys are right," he says finally. "This isn't what we're all about. The last thing I want to do is take the joy out of performing for you. We don't want to be anything like Vocal Adrenaline."

"We _do _want to win," Rachel reassures him, as the kids gather their things to leave. "And we will. We'll just do it on our own terms, that's all."

That weekend, curled up under the covers at night with his arm around Dustin's waist, his mind is miles away. The room is utterly silent, but it still takes him a moment to notice that Dustin's said something. "What?"

"I was just asking what's wrong with you." Dustin eyes him searchingly. "You've hardly said anything all night. It's boring and kind of creepy."

Will shakes his head, because this isn't the kind of thing they can really talk about. He doesn't _want_ Dustin's advice on it, for one, because that's part of the whole problem to begin with, and anyway, they've decided they're not going to talk about work, for safety's sake.

"Have you ever felt like you're just being pulled apart in different directions by two things you care about?" Maybe if he frames it in more abstract terms, though it's still obvious what he means. Dustin snorts.

"You mean like you and my job? That's a pretty accurate description, yeah." He nestles closer, brushing a kiss against Will's shoulder. "Sometimes I kind of hate you for taking all the fun out of mercilessly slaughtering you."

"_All _the fun?" Will raises an eyebrow at him. Dustin rolls his eyes, conceding.

"Okay, fine. Most of the fun." He pulls the blankets closer around himself. "...Some of the fun."

"You're so romantic it hurts." Will sifts his fingers through Dustin's hair, and Dustin laughs, deep and quiet and affectionate.

"Seriously, though," he says, making himself more comfortable on Will's pillow. "I'm afraid my kids will think I'm going soft. I need to step up my game, maybe dangle someone's hamster over a blender or something."

"For god's sake, Dustin." There was a time when that wouldn't have made Will laugh, and he tells himself it's because he's not taking it literally now, but...well, there's quite a real possibility that Dustin _means_ it literally. "You wouldn't really, would you?"

"I wouldn't actually drop it in, if that's what you're asking." Dustin seems to sense that this is not a satisfactory answer, though. He sighs. "No, I wouldn't do it. It wouldn't really help maintain the kind of discipline I need. Intimidation is great, and it's useful, but it has to be the right _kind _of intimidation. Threatening to puree a hamster would just be useless showboating. It's a subtle distinction."

"You're completely missing the point." Will looks down at him. "You get that it's not about whether it would be useful or not, right? The point is that it's morally unconscionable." The way Dustin brushes this off with a dismissive little huff is troubling. "Come on, Dustin. You have to have at least _some _sense of right and wrong."

"No, I don't. Are you kidding? You know me." Dustin raises his head from Will's shoulder, enough to look him in the eye. "You know I think consciences are overrated."

"I was hoping that was just posturing." He's never been under the impression that Dustin has a heart of gold just under the surface, but he has to admit, he can't bring himself to accept that Dustin is _completely _amoral. "I don't think you're as bad as you pretend to be."

"And you can keep on thinking that. It's endearing." Dustin kisses his cheek. "Really, I mean it. You're adorable."

"This isn't funny, Dustin." Will pulls away from him, wanting to make him listen. "Why would it even occur to you to traumatize your students that way? Why do you _like _it when people think you're a monster? Did your parents not hug you enough when you were little?"

"_Au contraire._ They hugged me way too much." At the look on Will's face, Dustin immediately backtracks. "Jesus, no, not like _that._ I just meant that they're granola-crunching pacifists who think competition is immoral."

"So you're pretty much saying that your scary sadistic streak is because your parents wouldn't let you be a ruthless little winning machine as a child, and now you overindulge."

"Exactly," says Dustin. "I swear to god, if you spent ten minutes at the school I went to, you'd come out wanting to torture people too. You know how you play tug-of-war on the playground in elementary school?"

"Yeah?"

"We weren't allowed to do that. We had to call it a 'Tug of Conflict Resolution.' Stop laughing, I'm serious."

"I'm sorry." It _is _funny, though, and a bit of levity is nice to have right now. "But okay, fine, so your school didn't have a glee club and you couldn't compete in things. That's tough, but it's no excuse for treating your kids badly."

"Oh, I'm not using it as an excuse. I'm just complaining about it. I don't have an excuse." He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Look, just because I don't like my kids doesn't mean I would actually _hurt _them, okay? Not on purpose. It's just that I don't have the patience to deal with whiny, incompetent teenagers, and I really like winning things, and scaring the shit out of them makes them listen to me. It's not some big Freudian mystery. You always like to complicate things."

"I'm just trying to figure out what possesses you to do half the things you do." Maybe what really scares Will is the fact that he _can _understand, at least a little. Having that drive to win is a slippery slope; he's started to see that all too well. Getting frustrated and feeling like anger is justified when his kids don't want to work as hard as he thinks they need to-isn't Dustin's coaching philosophy just that, taken to an extreme? "Why did you even become a teacher in the first place?" he asks. "If you hate it so much, why did you put in the effort to get an education degree at all?"

"The same reason anyone becomes a teacher," says Dustin. "Because I was too dumb to major in something practical, and there's not a whole lot else you can do with a BA in theater."

"That's not why people become teachers, Dustin." Will's voice is chilly, because he knows Dustin's insulting him on purpose. "People pursue teaching because they _love _it, because they have a passion for something and they want to share it with kids and help a new generation to love it as much as they do."

Dustin appears to be considering this. "You're right," he says contritely, thoughtfully. "You're absolutely right. Say something in Spanish."

"What?"

"I mean, that's why you became a teacher, right? You didn't start out coaching New Directions. You teach Spanish. You must have such a passion for the language. I'm sure you speak it beautifully. Maybe you could recite a poem for me."

Will rubs his eyes. "You know what, Dustin? Your argument isn't going to work. I see what you're doing. You're trying to get me to admit I only became a teacher to pay the bills, just like you did, and that I'm no better than you, but you know that's not true. Because the difference between you and me is that I came to love what I do, and you never will. But even if I didn't love teaching, I still wouldn't terrorize the kids in my Spanish class to the point where they would try to make a run for the Philippine embassy just to get away from me. That's not acceptable. There is no universe in which that is okay."

Even if he regrets turning a perfectly nice afterglow into an argument, he knows he's gotten through to Dustin this time. Even if Dustin's still focused intently on the ceiling, frozen-faced, hands folded atop his stomach, not touching Will at all anymore, he's actually letting this sink in for once.

"Yeah, well," he says, his tone distant and uncharacteristically subdued. "Vive la difference."

Will sighs, reaching over to touch Dustin's arm and make amends, but Dustin jerks away. "Come on," Will says, reluctantly keeping his hands to himself. "I'm sorry, all right? We shouldn't have gotten into this right now."

"Yeah, but we did." At least Dustin isn't pulling away anymore, and that's a step in the right direction. Cautiously, Will eases over until they're touching again, resting lightly against each other.

"I just don't understand," he says. "You act so proud of being cruel and dishonest and not having a conscience, and you go on about how you own it and you don't care, but every time I point out something morally wrong that you're doing, it upsets you. You can't stand it if anyone actually _agrees _that you're a terrible person."

"No, Will, I can't stand it when _you_ say I'm a terrible person." Dustin shuts his eyes, looking pained. "It's different when you do it, all right? I don't know how, but it is. My own _mother _thinks I'm an asshole and it doesn't bother me, but I guess you're just fucking special in some way."

It hurts Will to see Dustin so openly distraught, because he's never seemed vulnerable like this before. It hurts to see him in pain, to say nothing of the fist that squeezes Will's heart when he realizes just how much Dustin is admitting to. "I don't think you're a terrible person," he says quietly, though the damage is already done.

"Maybe you should. I don't know." Dustin's voice is resigned and weary. "Can we just...not talk about this anymore?"

They can't just let it go forever. It's going to loom up again someday and they'll have to address it again. But not right now.

He slips his arm around Dustin's waist, spooning almost protectively against him, resting his forehead against Dustin's shoulder from behind. Dustin holds himself stiffly, not reciprocating or cooperating, but gradually, he melts. Will holds him tighter.

"The hell have you done to me, Schuester?" Dustin murmurs, covering Will's hand on his stomach with his own and twining their fingers together. Will shakes his head, not knowing, and closes his eyes.

* * *

><p>There are no words for quite how relieved Will is when the list of who's competing where for Sectionals is finally posted. Vocal Adrenaline is in another bracket entirely, competing with a bunch of teams Will's never heard of. New Directions' competition is a little more formidable than usual; they're up against Aural Intensity again, under new management, and there are no schools for the deaf or the elderly on the list this time around, but that's all right. They can handle anything but Vocal Adrenaline. He knows they've gotten lucky.<p>

He can't count on them being this lucky for Regionals, but just for now, the schedule has bought him and Dustin a little more time.


	7. Chapter 7

They don't see each other too much as Sectionals approach. It's to be expected, really. Neither of them has much spare time. This is about the time of year when Dustin takes to sleeping on his office couch rather than going home, in what is apparently a proud tradition of past Vocal Adrenaline coaches who didn't last more than five years before getting burned out and quitting as shells of their former selves. This would be foreboding, but Dustin's not like any of those losers. He can do this. He has fantastic self-discipline, at least when it comes to everything that doesn't involve Will. He can't keep up his single-minded focus on rehearsing when he finds himself fucking _daydreaming _about Will, zoning out and thinking about him when he should be watching his kids like a hawk to catch their mistakes.

He hadn't planned on getting more than a few hours of sleep; he's been revising the song order one last time and jotting down choreography notes and putting finishing touches on everything. None of this is stuff he could be doing with his arch-rival in the room, but he wishes Will were there anyway. They haven't seen each other in three weeks, not completely for lack of trying.

At quarter past midnight, he's starting to flag, but not until his phone rings does he consider taking a break. There are only two people who would be calling him at this hour, and thankfully, it proves to be Will and not Sue Sylvester. "Hey," he says, making himself comfortable on the sofa.

"I knew you'd still be up." Will sounds as tired as Dustin is; he's probably working late too. Dustin smirks, because he can't _not _get a kick out of the way Will's starting to turn into him, even if it means more of a challenge for Vocal Adrenaline.

"Yeah," he says, "it's one of those 'sleep in my office and shower in the theater dressing rooms' nights." He'd been kind of shocked when he first found out just how luxurious the Carmel theater facilities were, but it seems normal enough now that he's been here a while.

"Wait, what?" He can almost hear Will making that adorably confused face on the other end of the line. "You're still at work? It's almost half past midnight, Dustin."

"Half past midnight on the day of a competition," Dustin points out. "I can't be lying down on the job when I have all this last-minute work to do. Aren't you doing the same thing? Why are you still awake?"

"I'm still awake because I couldn't sleep. I'm not still at school, because that would be _crazy._" Thankfully, Will doesn't elaborate further, seeming to sense that this is one of the things they should agree to disagree on. "I just...wanted to talk to you, that's all. You've been so busy I haven't seen you lately."

He tries to ignore the pleasant, spreading warmth in his chest. "You miss me?" he teases.

"You want me to miss you?" Will counters, but it sounds like he's smiling, and it's always contagious when he does. "You can make some time after tomorrow, can't you? You don't have to dive right into prep for Regionals. You can come over, I'll make pizza, we can catch up on things..."

"There's not _that _much to catch up on," says Dustin. "You make it sound like I've been avoiding you for months."

"Is that a yes?"

"Sure, fine, why the hell not." That smile is still stubbornly refusing to leave his face. There's a moment of silence on the line, which he feels the need to break.

"I'm glad you called," he says. "Being here all alone at night kind of drives me crazy. It's just so freaking _quiet_, and I keep feeling like there might be a serial killer lurking around the corner or something."

"Then why are you there?" Will sounds concerned, and Dustin doesn't know how to feel about that. "You know, I worry about you sometimes. This job can't be good for your health."

"And your concern is appreciated. Really, it is." It would be if he actually believed it, anyway, but he'll pretend he does. "I'm fine, okay? And now I have tomorrow night to look forward to. It's all good." It _is _all good. The prospect of seeing Will again, flush with victory after a long day, free to just relax with him and enjoy the success of Sectionals, is enough to make him feel more cheerful than he has in a long time.

Sectionals are a fucking disaster.

It's not that they don't win; of course they win. Even Vocal Adrenaline's worst performance is better than anything their hack competition could manage on a good day. But it's _close._ It's so close that it's nearly a tie, because Sunshine visibly stumbles over the lyrics in her solo and it takes her a heart-stopping moment to recover, and Dustin can see the judges nodding grimly and scribbling notes, and all he can think for one interminable moment is _oh, jesus, my career is over._Sunshine recovers, and redoubles her efforts, and the rest of the number goes off without a hitch, but the damage is done.

He stops her from getting on the bus, drags her aside, demands to know what the _hell _that was. Will's broken him of the habit of saying 'fuck' and 'shit' in front of his kids, but he's on the verge of a relapse. She'd known she wasn't going to get off easy, but she's tearing up anyway, wiping her eyes on her sleeve to no avail.

"Is this ever going to happen again?" he hisses.

"No! No, never again, I swear-"

"Damn right it's not. Because we are going to go over and over and _over _it until you can do it without costing us a title. You do not leave the auditorium until you can literally sing your Regionals piece in your sleep, and I will sedate you to make you prove that. Do I make myself clear?"

She nods, terrified, but she can't quite stop herself from babbling. "Just-please, Coach, not tonight. It's my birthday."

She looks like she regrets the words even as she's saying them, and with good reason, because at any other time, Dustin would have brushed that off and kept her rehearsing all night whether it was her damn birthday or not. Tonight, though, he'll listen to her. Even if he didn't have plans of his own, he has the sudden uncomfortable realization that he'd have a hard time looking Will in the eye if he didn't let the poor kid go home. He can almost hear Will's outraged voice in his mind, demanding to know what's wrong with him.

"Not tonight," he concedes, and she sniffles gratefully. "Get on the bus."

By the time he knocks on Will's door, he's in a miserable foul mood, and he just wants to forget Vocal Adrenaline even exists. As soon as he enters the room, though, he's swept into a fierce, hot kiss, and Will lets him go with a jubilant slap on the shoulder. "Sectionals were _amazing,_" he gushes. "I can't even tell you how incredible it was. I've never seen my kids perform like that. It was just exhilarating."

Dustin's stomach sinks. "That's great," he says dully. "Congrats." There's no way he can feign excitement about that, but then, he wouldn't have done that even if the performance had gone perfectly, and he's not sure why Will would expect him to.

Will pulls away, frowning. "Something wrong?" he asks, and Dustin is trying really, really hard not to be irritated by the cluelessness that he usually finds slightly endearing, but it's a losing battle. He wants to lash out and snap about how much he loves hearing about his archrivals' success, but he keeps that in check, and instead, he finds himself being honest when it's probably a bad idea.

"Yeah, something's wrong. Sectionals were horrible, that's what's wrong. The whole thing was a fucking travesty." He sighs. "Let's just relax and talk about other stuff, okay? We can watch a movie or something. It'll be nice."

Of course Will's not going to let it go that easily. He narrows his eyes. "What happened? Did you lose?"

"What? Of course we didn't _lose. _Who do you think we are?" He pushes past Will, annoyed now, and tosses his coat onto a chair.

"Then I don't get it. What's the problem?" Will folds his arms.

"The problem is that we _sucked,_" Dustin snaps. "The problem is that it wasn't fucking _good_ enough."

"How do you think your competition felt, then?" Will asks, arching an infuriating eyebrow. "Losing to a performance that sucked?"

"I don't give a shit how they felt," he says. "Their coaches are like you. They're all English teachers and math teachers, and they weren't hired for the sole purpose of bringing in trophies. I was. We've been over this."

They have, which is probably the only reason why Will seems inclined to let it go. He rubs his eyes and sighs. "This is why I worry about you," he says.

He keeps saying that, but it never quite registers, because Dustin can't really comprehend it. He can believe that Will likes him, but he just can't quite picture Will actually _worrying _about him. Dustin's never really understood that. He's never worried about anyone before in his life. He's not sure how it's supposed to feel, or what it really entails. He definitely knows better than to actually say this out loud, though, lest he have to deal with Will calling him a sociopath all night.

"Do you really?" he asks.

Will's look is almost pitying. "Yeah," he says. "I do." He squeezes Dustin's shoulder. "Come on. The pizza's getting cold."

He's not even remotely paying attention to anything Will says as they sprawl together on the couch with drinks later, though he interjects with vague noises of agreement at what seem like appropriate times. As distant as his mind is, though, he snaps instantly back to awareness when Will stops talking. "What?"

"You're not listening to a word I'm saying."

"I'm sort of listening," he protests. Will rolls his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the couch.

"I'll try not to distract you from your thoughts," he says. He seems content enough to just sit quietly, not terribly annoyed, but five seconds of that and it's already making Dustin antsy. He hates silence. There's no such thing as comfortable silence.

"You're not distracting me. I'm listening, I promise. Keep going."

"Mmm, no, it's fine." Will leans sideways until their heads rest together, and falls quiet again. Dustin tries to deal with it, because he _should _be able to handle a few minutes of nice, affectionate, slightly passive-aggressive silence, but it's not going to happen.

"Really, can we not? It's just creeping me out."

"How is it creeping you out?" Will turns to look at him, frowning. "This is the second time you've told me it's creepy when I don't talk. I don't get it."

"It's not you. I just have a thing, okay?" Dustin shakes his head. "I just don't like long silences. They make my skin crawl. I'm weird about it."

"That's an interesting phobia," Will says thoughtfully.

"It's not a _phobia,_" he says, annoyed. He doesn't have phobias. "It's more of a...pet peeve."

Will nods, and doesn't respond. There isn't a sound in the room aside from the distant dripping of the kitchen sink.

"What are you doing?" Dustin demands, after a neverending moment. Will holds a finger up to his lips and says nothing. Maybe outrage isn't the proper response to that, but then, Dustin doesn't know what _is_ the proper response to someone taking your just-explained almost-phobia and deliberately prodding at it, so outrage it is. "No. Stop it. We are not doing this." There's still no response, so he'll just have to take it upon himself to fill the silence, then. "What, did I do something to piss you off? Is this what I get for not listening to you earlier? Because I wasn't trying to offend you, I was just tired and you were droning about your kids and you know I always kind of zone out when you do that. Out of professional courtesy, I mean, not because it bores the shit out of me or anything..."

"Do you hear yourself?" Will raises an eyebrow at him. "You're babbling. I've never heard you do that before. You just couldn't stand the quiet."

"I just _told _you that, you idiot. You didn't have to test it. You can take me at my word sometimes." He is not in the mood for any of Will's educational games right now.

"I was trying to help," says Will. "I'm good at helping people through this stuff, you know, getting over phobias-"

"It's _not-_" Dustin breaks off, rubbing his eyes. He's probably just overreacting. When he thinks about it, the sentiment is really kind of nice, if misguided. "Look, fine, that's...sort of sweet of you. But seriously, it really does not affect my life in any significant way. I just need the radio on so that I can get to sleep, and I'm good."

Will looks baffled. "What are you talking about? You've never done that."

"Not around _you_," Dustin says, as if it should be obvious, because it really should. "I don't need it when you're there."

"Really?" Will seems touched by that, and it's surprisingly endearing. "What, there's just something about me that makes it not that bad?"

"Yeah." Dustin can't help but smirk. "You snore."

The affronted look on Will's face makes Dustin want to kiss him, so he does, before Will can protest. "I do not snore," Will says, when they pause to breathe, but his hand is already sliding through Dustin's hair and he doesn't seem inclined to argue that any further.

"I beg to differ." He doesn't really, because that would distract him from this, leaning back into the corner of the couch until Will is halfway in his lap, sucking tenderly at his lower lip. This is the kind of slow, quiet sweetness he can appreciate, even when there's no other sound in the room besides their unsteady breathing and the sound of kissing. Three weeks isn't even that long, in the scheme of things, and he should not have missed this to anywhere near this extent.

"It's not, like, really egregious snoring," he murmurs, nuzzling into Will's neck and breathing him in as Will unbuttons his shirt and runs his hands over Dustin's chest. "Just enough to be reassuring, that's all."

"I still don't believe you." Will grins into the kiss, sliding off the couch and pulling Dustin with him.

It takes them an unusually long time to get each others' clothes off, because neither of them wants to pull away, and Dustin can't stop touching him, just running hands over skin. He's used to Will being pushy and impatient and insistent, and he likes that. He's accustomed to wanting Will to be even rougher and fuck him even harder, but right now Will's careful and deliberate, licking without biting, nothing that would leave bruises, and Dustin doesn't want him to stop. It's almost maddening, nothing but the slow friction of his cock against Will's stomach as Will moves, and he doesn't know whether he wants to touch himself or just hold Will tighter and move against him. He doesn't know what to make of the gentleness, because it just...isn't like them. Or maybe it's just that it isn't like _him,_ but if it's how Will feels like doing things, he's okay with that. Dustin's spent his entire adult life mocking people who use the term 'making love,' and he's certainly not going to apply it to anything he does, but maybe this is what it's like. 'Lovemaking' seems like a phrase Will would use without irony, because he's kind of embarrassing that way, and he draws in a sharp ragged breath and thrusts up against Will, fingers digging into him, because he wants to just forget that that word popped into his head at all.

It's _good_ this way, god, it does feel good, gradual-building tension like hard work paying off, a wave of pleasure that knocks the breath out of him and makes his entire body tighten, and for once, Will's the one breathing profanity in his ear. It's so fucking hot it makes him wrap himself around Will's body and gasp between clenched teeth. "Say that again," he pants, sucking at Will's neck, and Will obliges, whispering _'fuck'_ in a way that goes straight to Dustin's cock. He can _feel_ how close Will is, and he encourages it, gripping tighter onto him, rocking faster, and fuck, he wouldn't have thought he could come just from this, but there's the heat and the friction and the sound of Will's breathless voice in his ear, and he can't even tell which one of them comes first, both of them shuddering together, hands sliding on each others' sweat-slick skin.

The silence that follows afterwards is all right, somehow. It doesn't make him feel the urgent need to break it with words; he can close his eyes and just listen to Will trying to catch his breath, and it's okay. He could learn to appreciate this.

"Listen," Will says after a little while, draping an arm sleepily across Dustin's chest. "Don't stress about Sectionals. You won. It's fine. Just let it go."

"I'm not stressing about Sectionals," Dustin tells him. "I'm stressing about Regionals now. I've moved on."

"Oh, well, in that case." Will rolls his eyes, but he seems to have finally broken himself of the habit of starting arguments after sex, and he leaves it at that. "So you don't mind it being quiet in here?" he murmurs. "You don't want me to turn on some music or something?"

"Nah." Dustin lazily plays with Will's hair, appreciating the consideration. "I'm okay."

"Good," says Will, pulling the blankets around himself. "Because I don't snore."

* * *

><p>Dustin isn't surprised to be summoned to speak with his boss the next day. He'd known he was going to have to face the music, evidently sooner rather than later. He's carefully prepared a series of arguments for why Sectionals was a fluke and why it is absolutely never going to happen again, and all he can do is hope it'll be enough.<p>

"Close the door, Goolsby."

Principal Snitterman has always been a little too hands-on when it comes to the music and theater department of his school. It's understandable, Dustin supposes-the program is Carmel's bread and butter, in the way athletics are for most other schools. Vocal Adrenaline secures more and better alumni donations than anything else, and with that in mind, he doesn't _blame_ Snitterman for breathing down the back of his neck all the time.

"You know," Snitterman says, "you've been here a year and a half now, and you haven't done a single thing that's impressed me."

_You insufferable asshole. I'm doing the best I can._"I'm sorry to hear that," Dustin says, as subserviently as he can manage. "I promise you, though, what happened yesterday was-"

"You're completely useless as a choreographer. My dog could choreograph better routines in her sleep." Snitterman's eyes bore into him. "The only reason we let you keep trying is because Dakota Stanley's fled the country and we haven't been able to track him down. I saw that performance at Sectionals, Goolsby, and you are running out of chances to prove to me that you aren't a talentless hack."

It takes every ounce of composure Dustin possesses to stand there and take that without lashing out to defend himself, but his neutral expression never wavers. He's aware of his weaknesses as a director; he knows choreography isn't his strong suit, exactly, and that he really should have someone to do it for him, but that doesn't make this conversation any less humiliating or infuriating. He'd thought this was going to be about the debacle with Sunshine and the forgotten lyrics, not his failures in other areas. He doesn't know which he should try to focus the conversation on in order to better his chances of getting out of his room with his job intact. In the end, he decides that his best bet is to mostly keep his mouth shut. "I'm planning to pull out all the stops for Regionals, sir. I'll enlist help for the choreography. You won't be disappointed."

"Don't do that," Snitterman scoffs. "Are you an idiot? If you pull out all the stops for Regionals, you'll have nothing left for Nationals. Don't strain yourself. You can't handle it."

_Then why don't you run the glee club yourself, you pencil-dicked cretin? I know what I'm doing._ "It was a figure of speech. I just meant-"

"Save it." Snitterman returns to his paperwork, dismissing Dustin without even bothering to say so. "You need to tone down the incompetence, Goolsby. I will be watching you. Are we communicating here?"

"Loud and clear, sir." Dustin grits his teeth and leaves, managing not to slam the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Will doesn't know when exactly he started getting so concerned about Dustin's well-being. As caring a person as he likes to think he is, he doesn't usually have a lot of sympathy for grown adults who bring their problems on themselves, especially when those problems involve competing with him. He's never found himself wondering if Sue is doing okay now that the Cheerios have fallen from grace, or thinking that maybe he should cut Sandy Ryerson a break because unemployment is tough. Six months ago, he wouldn't have felt anything but a healthy sense of schadenfreude at the thought of Dustin having problems at work, because he didn't <em>have<em> to take a job at the most ridiculously unreasonable, ethically-questionable school in Ohio. He doesn't _have _to work his kids so hard that they're constantly on the verge of mutiny, and yet Will's instinct towards him is becoming increasingly protective.

He thinks that's what it is, anyway. He'd never say it out loud, because god knows, there's nothing Dustin would hate more. It's not that he doesn't think Dustin can take care of himself, but sometimes he wonders if Dustin really wants to. He doesn't know how much of Vocal Adrenaline's grueling rehearsal schedule is Dustin's decision and how much of it is dictated by the Carmel administration, but he knows there's no reason for Dustin to have to sleep in his office when he could probably work just as easily from home, when he _knows _how much Dustin hates it. He has to wonder if it's some kind of masochism, if Dustin's trying to punish himself for something. He truly can't think of any other explanation for Dustin's ridiculous brand of workaholism, but he can imagine exactly what Dustin would have to say about Will's trying to come up with an explanation at all. Something along the lines of 'Could you stop trying to psychoanalyze me for two seconds? Sometimes a cigar is just a fucking cigar.'

He's always every bit as adamant about that as Emma was that she just really liked cleaning things, so determined to convince Will that he doesn't have issues, or that if he does, that they're completely under control and he likes it that way. He's always trying to deflect the conversation back onto Will, insisting that Will could stand to do a lot more analysis of his own flaws and less of everyone else's. Maybe he has a point, but he's right, Will doesn't want to think about any of that.

Dustin thinks Will's trying to fix him somehow, or reform him, or make him a different person, and maybe at some point, Will had been. If Will ever had to justify this relationship to anyone at McKinley, he might even frame it in those terms and just hope Dustin never found out about it, but it's not what this is about anymore. He doesn't know how to explain to Dustin that his insistence on debating moral issues and trying to figure out what makes him tick isn't because he wants to change him, exactly, it's just that he doesn't know how Dustin can possibly be happy with his life, and he wants to help. He _wants_ Dustin to be happy. He isn't quite sure when it became a priority.

How he would justify this to his kids or his coworkers is a bit of a moot point, at any rate, because he doesn't ever plan on having to do that. He and Dustin have pretty much stopped justifying it to themselves. It's another of their unspoken agreements, because they're well beyond Sectionals now, and neither of them has so much as mentioned their agreement, or talked about 'reevaluating' anything. It's just taken as a given that they're going to keep on doing this, because they want to, because it isn't causing problems. They're in uncharted waters now, just kind of playing things by ear, but the one thing they're still meticulously careful about is not getting caught. They don't mention each other at work. They don't let themselves be seen together anywhere in Lima or near Carmel. When they go out, they rarely frequent the same place twice, with the exception of that little karaoke bar where they'd made out in the parking lot.

Even when they're too busy to see each other, which is increasingly frequently, it's good to just _talk_ to him. Will calls him when he's stressed-out and bored to complain about Sue and Figgins, make fun of Sandy, talk trash about the other glee clubs in the area and bitch about the problem kids in his Spanish class. Sure, he can always talk to Shannon and Emma about stuff like that, and it's probably healthier when he does, but sometimes he just wants to let loose and be really mean-spirited and not have to worry about judgment, and Dustin is fantastic for that. Dustin _gets_ it. He's kind of like the devil on Will's shoulder sometimes, but it's liberating, and Will knows Dustin relishes it. He _shouldn't_ enjoy hearing Dustin talk shit about his kids in return, because for the most part, it isn't their fault that Vocal Adrenaline is the show choir equivalent of the evil dojo from The Karate Kid, but some of the little bastards who'd egged Rachel are still around, and Dustin has a hilarious way of putting things when he complains about them.

He has a wicked laugh, too, when he's truly amused about something, surprisingly loud and genuine even if it still sounds a little bit evil, and Will has to wonder how many other people get to hear it. Dustin doesn't usually let people make him laugh, unless it's that too-familiar little snort of disdain when he's mocking someone. Will tells himself he's not the jealous type, but he knows, deep down, that he's prone to possessiveness and protectiveness in nearly equal measure.

The protectiveness comes out in full force the next time he sees Dustin, who's sporting a split lip and a rather impressive bruise on his cheek. "What the hell happened?" Will demands, immediately reaching out to examine the injuries, even if they're standing right outside his house, even if a neighbor could see.

"One of my kids' dads hit me because I wouldn't give his precious baby girl a solo." Dustin shrugs, sounding bizarrely undisturbed by this. "Carmel parents are batshit."

"Are you serious?" Will's fingers are still tracing that bruise, testing its severity, and Dustin seems more surprised by the concern than anything. Will's just furious at the thought of anyone hurting him. Sure, Dustin's the kind of guy a lot of people want to punch, but that doesn't make it _acceptable. _"What happened to him?"

"What do you mean?" Dustin frowns, as much as he can without aggravating his wounds. "I had security haul his ass out of the auditorium and everything was fine. Shit happens." He finally flinches away with a hiss of pain when Will accidentally prods at a particularly tender spot, and Will shoves his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to keep touching him.

"Are you going to press charges?" he asks, eyes narrowing. Dustin looks at him as if he's grown an extra head.

"For _this?_ This isn't worth it. The only reason I'm pissed is because it's not very pretty to look at, and you're always saying I'm kind of a vain narcissist that way."

Will opens the door and shoos him inside, because this is not a discussion to be having out on the front steps when it's pitch-dark and freezing outside. "He assaulted you. That's not okay."

"Yeah, maybe not, but seriously, Will, I don't care." He pulls Will into a kiss, and it's true, he really doesn't seem terribly fazed by the bruises. He's downright cheerful.

Will relents and leans against him, curling his fingers into Dustin's hair. He traces his tongue along Dustin's lower lip, probing gently at the split in it, and he's not sure whether the faint whimper it provokes is one of pain or pleasure or a little of both.

"It's really cute when you fuss over things," Dustin murmurs against his lips.

Will keeps stroking at his hair. Fussing is all well and good, but it still doesn't satisfy his urge to fix things, and now he's going to be wondering what kind of other crazy stunts Carmel parents are likely to pull. "I still wish I could do a little more to help," he says.

"You can." Dustin smirks wickedly, hands sliding down Will's sides to pull him closer. "I hear orgasms are great for pain relief."

Will can't help but grin. His hands trail down Dustin's chest, teasingly unbuttoning his shirt. "That," he says, "I can do."

* * *

><p>There is no good reason for him to be getting called to Snitterman's office. There is never a good reason for it. His stomach is leaden with dread as he opens the door, because he can guess what this conversation is going to be about, and how it's going to go.<p>

For a man literally half Dustin's size, Snitterman has silent intimidation down to an art form, when he chooses to deploy it. The room is deathly still, and Dustin can feel a trickle of sweat creeping down his back as the quiet makes his insides squirm.

"What did I tell you about the choreography, Goolsby?" Snitterman folds his hands atop his desk, with deceptively calm menace. "I told you to find someone who wasn't worthless at it, and let them do it for you, because you can't be trusted to choreograph your way out of a goddamn paper bag. Did you do what I told you?"

There's no amount of careful wording that will get him out of trouble here, because the simple fact of the matter is that no, he hasn't found a more talented choreographer. He can't do _everything_ himself, for god's sake. He doesn't have time to be doing that shit. "No, sir."

"No." Snitterman drums his fingers on his desk. "And you've been lazy with the intel-gathering, too, haven't you."

Dustin keeps his mouth shut. He _has_ been lax about that. He's got profiles on the clubs he's competing with for Regionals, strengths and weaknesses and histories and ways they might try to pander to the judges, but they're sketchy, and he hasn't _done _anything with them. There's no point in having intel when one doesn't use it, and he could kick himself for that now, but it's too late.

"Tell me about New Directions, Goolsby."

Dustin's head snaps up, and he curses himself for reacting so disproportionately, but his heart jolts with the sudden terror that Snitterman _knows _something. He swallows, schooling his expression back into neutrality. "We're not competing with them at Regionals, sir. We won't have to be concerned with them until later."

"Because you're assuming they'll be at Nationals." Snitterman's lip curls. "Why, exactly, are you assuming that?"

"Because they managed to come in twelfth last year with virtually no rehearsal or preparation," Dustin says fatalistically, "and they're working harder this time."

"And you are doing _nothing_ about that." Snitterman slams his hand down on the desk, and Dustin flinches. "You aren't gathering inside information. You aren't working to demoralize them. You aren't utilizing Sue Sylvester as a resource. You are sitting back and you are _letting them win,_ and I want to know why!"

"You're mistaken, sir. That isn't what I'm doing at all." He's just free-bullshitting off the top of his head right now, because he has no idea how the hell he's going to talk his way out of this. "The thing about New Directions is that they've tightened their defenses against infiltration and spying. They dedicate a lot of energy towards thwarting sabotage, which is why I've been trying to go for Schuester directly, rather than aiming for the soloists, like we've done in the past-"

"Good." Snitterman nods approvingly, and for one brief minute Dustin lets himself hope he might be off the hook. "I want you to steal their set list."

His stomach sinks so fast it feels like whiplash. "I'm sorry?"

"You're going to get your hands on that set list and dissect every detail of it, so that we can determine exactly how to sabotage their numbers at Regionals. You are going to knock them out of competition before they ever get close to us, because quite frankly, Goolsby, you may have beaten them last year, but you're inept enough that it could have been a fluke."

Surely, Dustin thinks, there has to be a way out of this. "I understand, sir, but overt sabotage sounds like a good way to get ourselves disqualified. I really prefer to go the emotional-manipulation route. It's less prone to backfiring, less traceable and there's nothing about it in the rules."

"This is Carmel, son. If you can't cheat without getting caught, you never belonged here in the first place." Snitterman personally gets up to direct him out of the office this time, holding the door open for him. "If this year is a repeat of last year's second-place fiasco, we'll be searching for a new director this summer. I think we're done here."

_Yeah,_ thinks Dustin, feeling nauseous. _I am done here._

It would be the easiest thing in the world to get hold of Will's set list. He could do it without Will ever being any the wiser about it, and maybe he could find some way to...sabotage the sabotage; maybe he can just do it to buy himself some time and then figure out where to go from there.

Maybe nobody will ever know it was him if he does get New Directions eliminated from the competition at Regionals, and then he won't have to worry about competing with Will. He won't have to agonize over what Nationals is going to do to their relationship. It could be good for them, if only he could be sure Will would never find out.

But he can't be sure of that. And if he did it, it would _bother_ him. It would needle at him, and he's so unaccustomed to that that he doesn't know how he would handle it.

He thinks about refusing Snitterman, and he thinks about finding another dingy little community theater to direct in while he gives cheap piano lessons to sulky children to support himself on the side. He thinks about packing his things and heading back to Philadelphia to take another dead-end job as a music teacher to rich brats who don't give a shit, and he knows he can't be so naive as to think that love is going to solve any of his problems here. Love doesn't conquer shit.

He stays over at Will's place that Saturday. At this point in the competition season, they're used to each other being preoccupied. Will doesn't comment on it, just reaches over to the nightstand and turns on the radio to fill the silence. Dustin's grateful, because it gives him time to think of just how the hell to say this.

"Let me ask you something," he says finally, "and let me just preface it by saying that I have never said these words before in my life, because pretty much nobody actually wants to hear them."

"That doesn't sound reassuring." Will raises his head from Dustin's shoulder, pulls back to look at him. "What is it? Is everything okay?"

Dustin sighs, not making eye contact. "Where is this relationship going?"

He's glad for the fact that he can't see the look on Will's face as Will moves aside, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. "I'm...not really sure what you mean," Will says.

"What do you mean, you're not sure? It's a straightforward question, Will." He can't afford for Will to be stupid and wishy-washy about this. Not now. "I just want to know how long this is going to go on," he says. "I want to know if it's going to get any more serious than this."

"Serious how?" Will presses. "Like...telling people? Moving in together? What are you saying?"

"Sure. Yeah. That kind of serious." If Will's bringing that up, Dustin will go with it. "I mean, we have a pretty good thing going on here, don't we?" he says. "It's not just a fling anymore. We both know that, right?"

"No, of course it's not..." Will doesn't hesitate to agree with that much, but he's holding back nonetheless. "I just...when did you want to start doing that? Telling people?"

"It's not about telling people. That was your idea; I just threw it in there. This is a 'where are we going to be six months from now' thing." He's starting to come to a realization, and he pauses. "No, forget that. I don't want to do this 'let's give it another trial period and see where we are' thing anymore. Do we have to act like we're renewing a contract? Can't we just have a normal relationship where we just assume we're going to stay together because we like each other? That's normal, right? People do that?"

"Yes, people do that, but-" Will cuts himself off, pressing his lips together as he considers his words. "I don't _want_ to stop doing this. I care about you, Dustin; you know that. I just...I don't know how long-term you're talking here."

Dustin frowns. He doesn't quite understand the distinction. "I don't know," he says. "I mean, do we have to set a time limit on it? Why do we have to do that?"

"It doesn't have to be a short time limit. But I..." Will shakes his head. "I want a family someday, okay? I always envisioned...being married again, having kids, being able to give the best years of my life to those kids."

"So you're saying you just need to get me out of the way at some point in the next year or so, so you can settle down and have obsessively clean babies with the guidance counselor. I get it." Dustin's a little surprised by how calm his voice is right now. Will makes up for it by sounding slightly panicked.

"How did you know about-"

"Sue Sylvester." He turns to look at Will, finally, even if it stings. "Or hey, maybe you'll end up with Holly after all. Ask her if she's into three-ways and give me a call if she says yes. I'd be down with that."

"Stop it," says Will quietly. Dustin's about to tell him to shut up, but Will reaches up to caress his cheek, touching the near-faded bruise, and the gesture is affectionate enough to make him stop arguing. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, all right? I don't want to end this. I _care _about you. Seeing you is the highlight of my week." He leans in for a soft kiss, and Dustin lets him. "I want to enjoy this."

"While it lasts," Dustin says, finishing the sentence for him. Will sighs.

"While it lasts," he admits. "But I don't intend for it to stop lasting anytime soon."

Dustin reaches up to mirror Will's hand on his face, stroking his cheekbone, sliding a hand around to the back of his neck and kissing him sweetly, and that's the end of talking. Will's all too glad to end the conversation there, running his hands over Dustin's chest and melting against him as they lie there making out like they're teenagers again. They wind down, finally, and Dustin switches the radio off, because he can handle the silence for the time it'll take Will to fall asleep.

No, that's a lie, he can't, but maybe he feels the need to make himself suffer for this. He presses a light, tender kiss to Will's forehead and waits until he hears familiar, reassuring snoring, and then he waits a while longer, until Will's breathing has fully evened out.

He slides out of bed, pulling his underwear back on, and quietly fishes through his pants pocket for the flash drive he's brought with him. Will's computer is out in the living room, a battered old thing that barely works, but Dustin doesn't need to use it for very long. He only has to type in a few different permutations of 'newdirections' when prompted for the password before he finds the right one, and it makes his chest ache, because god, Will's stupidity is so _endearing, _and it always has been.

The set list is labeled as such, of course, and he rifles through a few other files and folders just to make sure the obvious-looking one isn't a decoy, but of course Will wouldn't even think of that. He saves it, covers his tracks, shuts the computer down, puts the drive back in his pocket, and slides back into bed with Will, wrapping his arm tight and secure around Will's waist.

He wants to enjoy this while it lasts.


	8. Chapter 8

Will's pretty sure Dustin's mad at him, after that unexpectedly serious conversation the other week.

He'd thought they were fine at first, because they'd ended the discussion on pleasant enough terms, and when he'd tried to get out of bed the next morning, Dustin had pulled him back and mumbled something like "no, stay here, don't leave" without really waking up. Once he had been fully conscious, though, he'd been distinctly distant, not wanting to stay for breakfast and leaving without much of a goodbye, giving some vague excuse about an early faculty meeting and hurrying out the door. Will hasn't heard from him since.

He'd been resentful for the first few days, because he's not being unreasonable here. He'd been completely honest, and how can Dustin fault him for wanting a family someday? It's hardly as if he could raise kids with Dustin, when by the man's own admission, the very idea of being a father makes him break out in hives.

Even after that theoretical discussion, about a month ago, about kids and marriage and whether Dustin's ever wanted any of that, it had honestly never occurred to him to consider their relationship in that light. Three months ago, they'd still been using the term 'fuckbuddies' to describe it. (Dustin had, anyway. Will prefers 'colleagues with benefits.') This is just...experimentation. It's the kind of experimentation Will never had the chance to do in college, and he'd just been curious because that angry drunk kiss had felt so damn _good_, and it had gone way, _way _too far. And then it had just...kept going, until it didn't feel like too far anymore. Nothing really feels like it's too far anymore.

Maybe Dustin has a right to be hurt. Maybe Will's been blind to a few too many things. Maybe he's been dragging his feet for too long.

He can't tell _everyone _about this; he'll never be ready for that, and he doesn't think Dustin would be, either. He's not going to risk this getting back to his kids. He's not going to risk his professional reputation or Dustin's job, and he's not going to risk the kind of vitriol he sees kids fling at Kurt every day. But he can talk to the one person he knows can keep a secret, the one person who's never judged him. He tells Shannon everything.

"Let me get this straight," she says, aiming her beer bottle accusingly at him as they sit in the one quiet-enough-to-talk corner of Rosalita's. "You're sleeping with a dude."

"Yes."

"You've been seeing this guy for _eight months._"

_Jesus, has it been that long?_ He hasn't thought about it that way. He'd stopped really counting the time after summer had ended, but...yeah. It's been that long. "I guess so."

"You've been seeing this guy for eight months, and none of us knew a damn thing about it? Hot damn, Will, if you ever get sick of teaching, why don't you just go on and join the CIA? They could use undercover skills like those." She shakes her head. "I get why you didn't want to go public with it, but I just can't believe I didn't suspect a thing. I always know when something's going on with you. _Everyone_ knows when something's up with you. You suck at hiding things."

"Yeah, well, I hid this." Will sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I just...it wasn't supposed to _go _this far, but we just never stopped, and now it's at the point where I have to actually make decisions about it."

"Yeah, looks like." Shannon flags down a waiter and orders them a plate of wings. "So? What're you gonna do? What do you want from him?"

That's what Will's been debating with himself all day, but he still can't fully articulate it. He nibbles on a tortilla chip. "Companionship, I guess," he says pensively. "And sex. The sex is fantastic, which...I really wouldn't have expected. He's a surprisingly good listener, I mean, at least for some stuff. He's gotten better at it than he used to be. He's good at knowing what to say when something's bothering me, but that's the thing, he's not _usually _good with people. I've seen him with other people and it's kind of ridiculous. It's just like...he's more in tune with me than he is with anyone else."

"Mmhmm." Shannon takes a swig of beer. "So he makes you feel special."

He does. He really, truly does, which never fails to surprise Will, given how their relationship started. And it isn't comparing himself to Dustin that makes him feel good about himself; it's not about feeling good at anyone else's expense. It's just the way Dustin _looks_ at him. And the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders how much he really gives in return. He's always been so reticent, because he's told himself he can't _really_ see himself with another man, but that doesn't sit right anymore. He's beyond the point where he can keep telling himself that.

"You in love with him or something?" Shannon asks, and Will shakes his head, but he's still thinking.

"I don't...I don't know," he says, eyes focused on the middle of the table without actually seeing any of it. "I never thought I was."

"Well, _something's _making you stick with him instead of followin' Emma all over the place like a prize bull in mating season. You think about him a lot? You get all jealous over him?" Will nods. "You do that thing where he mentions some little problem he's always had, and you have to come up with a big scheme to fix it?"

"He keeps saying it's not a phobia, when it _obviously_ is. I could help him if he'd _let_ me."

"And I bet he's got this one cute little quirk that makes you all moony-eyed, too."

"He has a laugh like a Disney villain." Will leans his head on his hand. "I swear to god, he really does. It's like there should be a thunderclap and a lightning bolt behind it."

"Right." Shannon gives him a look. "Come on, Will. Wake up and smell the barbecue."

"But what am I supposed to _do_ about it?" he says, because that's the million-dollar question here, isn't it? "I can't have a _future _with him. I can't have kids with him. It's not going to work out like that."

"Who says that's the only way to have a future?" she demands. "Shit, just look at me. I'm pretty darn happy, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but-" But that isn't the same. And that matters, doesn't it?

"But what? But you've got your whole life plan all hammered out, and if everything doesn't go just right, then that's a bad thing? You act like falling for this dude is just messing everything up for you, and you have to get all back on track before it goes any further. Who says any of the chicks you've dated want to have kids with you either?"

_That _is a low blow, even though he has to admit he's never actually thought of it that way. Will runs a hand through his hair, exhaling with frustration. "You get how this is really hard for me to accept, right?"

"Yeah, sure it is. You didn't even realize you liked dick until you met this guy, apparently." Shannon shrugs. "Still looks like he makes you happy. You have plenty of time ahead of you to meet someone else and have babies if it doesn't work out with what's-his-face. If the only thing wrong with him is that you can't knock him up, why not just go along with it and see what happens?"

Will would protest that there are plenty of other things wrong with Dustin, but honestly, none of them are dealbreakers. By now, they're just...quirks, things Will doesn't mind anymore, or else they're things Dustin's working on. They've been good for each other, he's realizing.

"Maybe I was a little quick to tell him it wouldn't work out in the long term," he murmurs, absently scooping up some buffalo sauce on a chip.

"And you're wondering why he's not talking to you?" Shannon rolls her eyes. "Get him on the phone and tell him you were being an idiot. But do that later, because I haven't been able to drag you here in like two months and I've been planning my rematch with the mechanical bull."

By the time Will gets home that night, he knows he's far too drunk to have any kind of serious relationship conversation. He'd taken the battery out of his phone several beers ago, because he's learned his lesson from that debacle with Sue. But he thinks about it; he _wants_ to call Dustin, because shit, he feels bad about that conversation. He should apologize for it, he should tell Dustin he didn't mean any of it and that it's all good and that he wants to stay and make this work, really work, because he loves singing in the shower with Dustin and he loves calling him and hearing his sexy voice, and he loves that deep supervillain laugh and god, he really loves the way Dustin holds onto him and strokes his hair and looks at him like he's the sexiest guy in the world. He's loved that since before they were even together, because he remembers Nationals, and he remembers that slow, lingering glance up and down and how it had driven him _crazy_ and he hadn't known whether he was pissed off or turned on. He remembers how he hadn't been able to keep his hands off Dustin after that and he hadn't even realized he was doing it, but he'd just wanted to _touch_ him, just wanted to get close to him and get in his face and feel him, and he'd thought it was because he'd hated him, and it wasn't.

He wants to tell Dustin all of this, right this second, alcohol be damned, but when he puts the battery back in his phone and dials his number, the phone just keeps ringing and nobody picks up. Some last little shred of common sense tells Will not to leave a message, because that's what got him in trouble last time, and Dustin's right between Quinn and Finn on his contact list.

He hangs up, and swears to himself that he's going to tell Dustin all of that and more tomorrow.

* * *

><p>If this is what having a conscience feels like, Dustin wants no part of it anymore. He's been feeling sick inside ever since he delivered that list to Snitterman, because there's no going back now. He'd waited outside the man's office for twenty minutes before handing it over, agonizing about it, but in the end, he hadn't had a choice. Will hadn't left him a choice.<p>

It's only a matter of time before Will finds out, and then it's over, and he's trying to steel himself for that. No matter how he reminds himself that they were on borrowed time anyway, it doesn't make him any less miserable, even when he tells himself that at least he's sort of ending it on his terms now instead of waiting for Will to dump him for that fruit-scrubbing redhead. He has a career to think of. His job will still be here in five years, as long as he keeps his head down and does what Snitterman tells him. Will, as he'd made it abundantly clear, won't be.

"This is some decent stuff here," says Snitterman, poring over the list. "Some of these choreography notes. You could use some of this."

"What?" No. This is just going too damn far. "You didn't say anything about actually ripping off their ideas. And I can choreograph rings around that guy. I don't need to steal anything from him."

"Not 'ripping off,' Goolsby. We're _liberating _the ideas. And don't flatter yourself." Snitterman tosses the flash drive at him. "Piece something together out of these and let me see it in two days."

There's nothing for it, even if this is just adding insult to injury now, because he _is_ a better choreographer than Will. He tells himself that maybe he can just go along with this and then quietly remove it from the final Regionals set list, when it's too late for Snitterman to do anything about it. He'll just keep going along with it for now and figure out what to do later.

He cobbles together something for one of the songs on the list, with half his own work and half Will's, and hands the music to the kids as they file through the door. It's only then that he notices the guy leaning against the auditorium wall, arms folded, surveying the stage. Dustin thinks he recognizes him. "Jesse St. James?"

"That's me." The kid grins, oozing smugness from every pore. "Don't mind me. I'm just visiting the old stomping grounds. I wanted to see if you'd improved anything since I left."

This is about the last thing Dustin needs right now, but Snitterman would have his head for pissing off a future alumni donor, so he sighs and lets it go. "Whatever. Just don't disturb the rehearsal."

"Oh, I know how this works. I won't make a peep." Dustin hadn't thought it possible for that smirk to be any wider, but evidently, he'd been wrong. He shakes his head and leaves to go direct warmups.

He loathes himself more with every passing hour, and by the time he gets home, he's entertaining fantasies of just quitting his job altogether and joining a cult or something. Anything to get away from fucking Carmel and fucking Snitterman and fucking Ohio. He's making himself a drink when his phone rings.

It's Will, and he just stands there for a while before he can bring himself to answer it. He doesn't want to talk to Will. He doesn't want to pretend everything's fine after he's just spent an entire afternoon tearing apart the set list he should never have taken in the first place. "Hello?"

"Hey." There's a strange timbre to Will's voice, and Dustin can't place whether it's nervous or excited or what, but Will doesn't allow him much time to process it before barreling on. "Look, I just had to talk to you, because I've been thinking. I was thinking about all that stuff I said to you about putting a time limit on this, and I...I don't want to do that. I don't want to limit this. This isn't just something I'm doing until I meet someone else, Dustin; this is _real,_ and I was scared of that, but I'm not anymore. I can do this." He's breathless, words spilling out in a giddy rush. "I couldn't stop thinking about you after we had that talk, just...about all the ways you make me happy, everything I couldn't stand to give up about you. I'm in this for the long haul, Dustin. As long as you want."

Dustin sinks down onto a kitchen chair. He has absolutely, positively no fucking clue what to say to any of that, but it feels a little like someone's hit him in the stomach with a two-by-four.

"Dustin?" Now Will's starting to sound anxious. "You still there?"

This would be a good time for honesty. If Will's being this heart-pouringly honest with him, at the very least, Dustin owes him the truth in return.

"I love you," he says, because it just comes out. It's that or 'I stole your set list,' and both of them are true.

There's a laugh on the other end of the line, but it's happy, not mocking. "I think I love you too," Will says, something like wonderment in his tone. Dustin closes his eyes.

"Look," he says, "there's someone on the other line. I have to go, okay? I'll call you tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure," says Will, still sounding joyfully out of breath. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Dustin hangs up, tosses the phone across the room and puts his face in his hands. "Fuck," he says aloud, "fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

* * *

><p>There's nothing that can ruin Will's good mood the next morning, not even Sue. He spends the entire day with a bubble of excitement inside his chest, grinning like an idiot at inopportune moments. Shannon gives him a knowing look and a bruising slap on the shoulder when he passes her in the hallway, and he just smiles wider, because she'd been absolutely right. Everything is going to work out fine.<p>

He's not sure why exactly Dustin couldn't have called him back last night, but he doesn't think much of it. They'll talk later tonight, and Will can just head over to Dustin's apartment, because he's been wanting to get his hands on him all day and it's distracting him when he really shouldn't be letting it.

His spirits sink just a little bit when he finds Jesse waiting for him outside the choir room after rehearsal, but he'll live. It's probably best that Jesse's here when Will's in a charitable mood, anyway. "Jesse, look, I really do appreciate all your offers of help, but I really think it would be best if-"

"Just trust me," says Jesse, cutting him off. "You'll want to hear this." He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

"I took the liberty of using my influence as a former star to spy on Vocal Adrenaline for you," he says, "because I'm still rooting for you guys, I really am. Look at this."

Will sighs. "Jesse, I don't want to see any of what Vocal Adrenaline is working on. As good as your intentions may have been, I'm not interested in any underhanded info-gathering tactics this time around. We're doing things fair and square."

Jesse laughs, almost pitying, and something about it sends a little ripple of foreboding through Will's stomach, finally beginning to dampen his good mood. "Oh, Will. It's really sweet that you're trying to be honorable and everything, but you must have realized by now that that's why you keep losing, right? Vocal Adrenaline doesn't know the meaning of 'fair and square.' You know what Carmel's school motto is? 'Nice guys finish last.'"

"What are you talking about?" That foreboding is beginning to solidify into a cold, hard lump of dread. Will narrows his eyes.

Jesse pulls up a video on his phone and hands it over. "You need to tighten your security. I don't know how Goolsby managed to get his hands on your set list _and_ your choreography notes." He leans over Will's shoulder to watch, clicking his tongue with disapproval. "This guy is no Shelby. She would never have resorted to stealing ideas from _you_ guys. No offense."

Will's not even listening to him. He can't even hear the music on the video; he can't hear anything around him, the only thing going through his mind is _he lied to me. He lied about everything._

"Send me that video," he hears himself say. "I'm going to go take care of this."

He's seething throughout the entire drive to Dustin's apartment, gritting his teeth so hard it hurts, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers. For a second, just a second, he tries to think of a way to give Dustin the benefit of the doubt, but there's no _way_ to. There's no other explanation for this. He lied, and he _cheated,_ and he betrayed every ounce of trust Will has stupidly, stupidly, _stupidly_ put in him for the last eight goddamned months. How could Will ever have let this happen? How could he have been such an _idiot?_

He arms himself with his phone and hammers on Dustin's door until Dustin opens it. "What the fuck is going-" He stops dead, swallows, wary and guilty. "Will?"

"What the hell is this?" Will turns on the video and thrusts the phone at him, advancing on him, slamming the door behind him. Dustin stares at him like a deer in the headlights, wordless, and he doesn't take the phone until Will shoves it into his chest hard enough to leave a bruise. "_Answer _me," he hisses.

"I can explain," says Dustin, backing away, holding his hands up in pacifying self-defense. "I swear, Will, I wasn't trying to cheat-"

"You stole my set list," Will snarls. "You would have had to go into my computer and _search_ for it, and you took it and you stole my ideas to use for yourself. How the _hell _is that not cheating, you son of a bitch?"

At any other time, the wounded look on Dustin's face would have made Will ashamed of himself. Now, it only makes him angrier, _contemptuously_ angrier, because what fucking right does Dustin have to look at him like that? It's nothing but manipulation, because that's the one talent Dustin has in spades.

"I wasn't going to use any of it," Dustin says, as if trying to calm a wild animal. "I scrapped all of it last night. I didn't want to take it in the first place, Will, they gave me an ultimatum, I _had _to-"

"You didn't _have_ to do anything." Will grinds his teeth, pushing closer, until Dustin's backed up against the kitchen island and can't get any further away. "Don't give me that."

"They gave me an ultimatum," Dustin repeats, and now that he's backed into a corner, he's starting to sound angry too. "It was you or them, Will. When I asked you where this was going, that wasn't a 'let's snuggle and talk about our feelings because sharing is awesome' conversation, that was an _'are you worth losing my job for'_ conversation. And you told me you were just waiting around for something _better_ to come along. What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to play fair!" Will slams his fist into the kitchen wall. "You were supposed to do what the rest of us do, and play by the rules! You were supposed to be _honest!"_

"You know far honesty gets you at Carmel?" Dustin hisses. "I told you, Will, I wasn't going to _use _any of that stuff at Regionals. I was just following orders; I just took it to get Snitterman off my back..."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Will narrows his eyes. "You weren't just lying to me, you were lying to everyone? That's supposed to help?"

Dustin doesn't say anything, and his silence disgusts Will, because it's plain from the look on his face that that _was_, in fact, supposed to help. It makes Will sick, because he'd been so _stupid,_ deluding himself into thinking they were making progress, and Dustin's just making it clearer with every word that he still doesn't have anything like a normal human conscience. Dustin claims to love him, and just the thought of that makes Will's heart lurch painfully, because he doesn't know if a person _can _be equipped to love anyone when they don't even know right from wrong, and it's evident that he can't believe a word Dustin says anymore.

"You said it was them or me?" he says, his voice low and furious. "You made your decision, Dustin. It's obvious whose side you're on. I'm done with this."

"I'm on _your _side!" Dustin protests, sounding more anxious than Will's ever heard him. "Didn't you hear me? What part of 'I threw out everything I took from you because I didn't want to cheat' don't you understand?"

"I understand _exactly_ what you did. Don't you dare try to turn this back on me like I'm stupid for not getting it." He can't listen to this anymore. He can't stand to hear another minute of Dustin's pathetic, manipulative bullshit. None of it means a damn thing, and it never did. The fact that Dustin was so willing to throw him under the bus that he had his kids rehearsing stolen choreography is all he needs to know.

He heads for the door, footsteps speeding up as Dustin follows him. "Will you just fucking _wait?_" Dustin demands, and it makes Will want to punch him, because how _dare _Dustin talk to him like he's the one doing something wrong? He flings the door open, shakes Dustin off and escapes out into the hallway.

"Come on, Will!" There's a 'don't make me beg' note in Dustin's voice as he stands in the doorway, and at any other time, Will would be moved by it. Now, he can see it for the calculating bullshit ploy it is. He's not falling for it anymore.

"Aw, Dustin," he says, because this hurts like hell, and he's _angry, _and because the devil on his shoulder is telling him to be cruel. "Are you tearing up? People are going to think I just broke up with you."

He shouldn't relish the stricken look on Dustin's face, but he does. As he leaves Dustin's apartment building and gets into his car to start the ignition, his hands are trembling.

* * *

><p>He'd told Shannon once that he drank to deal with Terri, when they were married. He'd found solace then in getting blackout drunk, even if he didn't let himself do it often, because he feels <em>good<em> about himself when he's drunk. He feels confident and worthy of love and competent at things; he feels like he's a really awesome catch, the kind of guy Emma would want and Holly would stay with and Terri would admire.

That's what hurts the most about this. Because he's not that kind of guy, but he'd thought he was the kind of guy Dustin would do all of those things for. He'd thought it was mutual. It had been easy to believe Dustin loved him, because Dustin had _respected_ him, listened to him, given a damn about his opinion even when he'd claimed not to care. Once they'd gotten past that first month or so of posturing and pissing contests, once they'd accepted that they had things to offer each other outside of their rivalry, they _had_ respected each other. Dustin's insults had lost their cruel edge, and Will had kept the moral lecturing to a minimum, and they'd been honest about admiring each others' talent and intelligence. All Dustin had wanted was to be reassured that he wasn't a failure as a director, that his voice was no less worthy of Broadway than Will's, and Will had been more than happy to validate him, because it was true. He'd thought that was respect.

He thinks about Terri in the kitchen with her shirt hiked up and the pregnancy pad crumpled in a corner, and he remembers her parting shot. _Who are we kidding, Will? This marriage works because you don't feel good about yourself._ As if it were some obvious common-sense truth that he was too stupid to see, and she'd said it with the same creepy, ill-fitting innocence Dustin had affected when he'd said _what part of this don't you understand?_

They have the same eyes, Will thinks, after a few self-pitying drinks. They really do. The same weird, cold blue eyes with the same sneering way of looking at him when they're lying to him. The same tenuous-at-best grasp of right and wrong, the same driving need to shove other people out of the way to get ahead, the same endless ability to justify their behavior. Dustin had just been a hell of a lot better at pretending he didn't think Will was a hopeless idiot, but that had been a lie, too.

Is this what people do? Is this just what love is, and he's the only one who's not in on the joke? Is this just going to keep happening to him again and again, every time he lets himself believe someone when they say they care about him?

It's his fault, he thinks morosely. Because he's always drawn to people who just aren't _capable_ of love or loyalty, who don't fully grasp that they're not the only people on earth with feelings, who think rules are made to be broken and don't make any distinction about what rules to break or why. He wasn't special to Dustin in any way; he wasn't ever anything more than competition who happened to look good naked, because when it came right down to it, Dustin hadn't hesitated to betray him just like he would have betrayed anyone else in the world. He wonders what the hell Dustin thought this relationship was, what he was getting out of it, because sex and set lists and admiration of his talent from someone he was only pretending to respect wouldn't have been enough to waste eight months on.

Will's wasted enough time on this, too. He has one month until Regionals. He needs to pull himself together, make himself forget about Dustin, and focus on the people who _do_ care about him. They need him a hell of a lot more than Dustin ever did.

* * *

><p>Dustin hasn't bothered to look at his watch for a while, but it's been dark outside the auditorium for a few hours now, and he's starting to get hungry. He's not about to get up and go get dinner, though, and if he's not leaving, then neither are the kids. He raises his megaphone. "From the top," he orders. "Without sucking this time."<p>

The kids stoically take their places with only a little bit of exhausted whimpering. Dustin folds his arms across his chest. He's rewritten this piece fifteen times, and they _have_ to get it right tonight, _have_ to, because they'd lost precious rehearsal time when he scrapped the stolen material and started over, and Regionals are in just over two weeks.

The choreography for this number involves a lot of lifting and twirling, and he's always worried that he relies too heavily on that, but there's nothing for it right now. It looks like shit, and he'll tear into them for that as soon as they're done, but at least it's shit that can be polished.

Adrian, one of the timid scrawny tenors who has a habit of calling Dustin 'sir,' stumbles over a crack in the stage and drops his partner. He scrambles to catch her, but the kids' reflexes are getting slower as the evening wears on, and she collapses with a startled little shriek. The others, well-trained and fearful of Dustin's wrath, don't stop dancing for a second, just try to move around them, but Dustin waves his hand disgustedly to cut off the music and stalks over to investigate. "What the fuck are you doing?" he snarls at Adrian. "What happened?"

"I-there was a thing-it was sticking up-I tripped, I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to, it won't happen again, I'm sure she's fine. You're fine, Lisa, right?"

"Totally fine." Lisa scrambles to her feet, looking as petrified as Adrian does, though it hadn't been even remotely her fault. "I'm fine, Coach. We can keep going now. Really." They're practically clinging to each other, whether for comfort or to demonstrate that they're back in position for the number, Dustin isn't really sure.

He doesn't care. He doesn't want to hear their pleading and sniveling, because it only makes him think of what a pathetic weakling he must have sounded like, begging Will to come back and listen to him. A lot of fucking good it had done him, too, because that parting shot of Will's still hurts like a punch in the gut when he thinks about it, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as knowing that he was the one who ruined everything. He threw away the best thing that's ever happened to him, and there's no fixing it now.

"Are you blind?" he demands of Adrian, because he's seething now and he's not going to let the kid get away with disrupting rehearsal. "Or are you stupid? Clearly it's one or the other. Which is it?"

"I-I wasn't looking where I was going..."

"Oh," says Dustin, "so you weren't paying attention, is that it? You're not stupid, you're just careless and lazy. Well, at least you're in good company there, because _all_ of you-" He turns to address the rest of the kids, who are all standing stock still and ramrod straight and trying to avoid notice. "_All_ of you are lazy, whiny, coddled little brats. _All_ of you are wasting my time right now. You know what this performance looks like? It looks like an amateurish piece of shit, and I didn't _give_ you amateurish shit to work with. We're going to stay here and make it look professional if I have to keep you here all fucking week and put you on the IV drips again, am I clear?"

He's met with dead silence, and that's not going to fly, because that speech hadn't made him feel any more in control of things, any less guilty or worthless or hurt. "Are you all _deaf,_ too? I said _am I clear?_"

"Yes, Coach," they murmur, in perfect unison. Lisa looks like she might cry, and Dustin notices that her knee is bleeding a little, but he's never stopped a rehearsal to give anyone medical attention before and he's not going to start now. He doesn't know why they all look so fucking miserable. He's not acting out of the ordinary. He's been angrier with them before; they've handled worse than this in the past.

"What the hell's wrong with all of you?" he demands, and he doesn't know why he's asking, because he doesn't _care._ He feels precariously balanced right now, like he's on the verge of losing control and he doesn't know how to get it back, and it worries him.

Nobody seems willing to answer him, and half of him wants to berate them and snarl at them and push them until they snap just so he can feel like he's got a hold on things again, and half of him just wants to go back and collapse into a seat in the audience and let it go. They hover for a moment, at an impasse, and he's ready to scream at them just to break the silence.

"You were being nicer to us for a while," Sunshine ventures quietly, and a few other students back her up with hesitant nods. "You let me go home on my birthday."

"You weren't cussing at us whenever our timing was off," says one of the baritones, from the back of the group.

"You only told us we sucked when we really did suck," says Lisa.

Dustin is well and truly blindsided by this, which makes him uneasy in and of itself. He hadn't realized he'd been acting so differently, let alone that the kids had noticed. He hadn't known it was important to them, and now they've apparently come to _expect_ it. _Is this what it's like for Will?_ he finds himself thinking, wondering if this is what it feels like to have students like you and want things from you other than strict professional training, wondering what the fuck he's supposed to _do _with this. He thinks, for a split second, that he would love to tell Will about it, that maybe Will would be proud of him or something, but that thought disappears as quickly as it had come, because Dustin could probably save a bunch of orphans from a burning building now and Will would still think he was the scum of the earth.

The realization is a painful enough jolt back down to earth that it refreshes all of his bitterness and anger, and he turns his back on the stage, heading back to his seat and grabbing the megaphone again, gripping onto it like a weapon. "What did you do with the leeway I gave you?" he says. "You almost lost Sectionals, that's what. You've shown me what being nice to you gets me. You get complacent, and your performance suffers for it. If this is the shit you're turning out, you can't _afford_ for me to be nice to you. Do I look like Will Schuester?"

Even standing there stoically receiving abuse, heads hung in shame, the kids of Vocal Adrenaline have a sense of pride. Will's been a joke to them for years, and this seems to be the one way in which they're glad to have Dustin back to his old self, because they smile grimly and some of them laugh. Dustin hasn't said anything disparaging about Will at all this year, even for appearance's sake, and even now, it doesn't give him the satisfaction it gives them. But it feels good to get it out, and he keeps going. "You want me to take a page out of his playbook? Because I can do that. You want me to hug you and bake you cookies and listen to all your personal problems like I give a shit, great. We'll do that, and we'll have an awesome twelfth-place trophy to take home from Nationals, and it won't matter because we'll have the _power of friendship_ on our side. That what you guys want?"

"No," they respond, emboldened. Dustin keeps going.

"You want me to cancel this rehearsal so we can have some _fun?_ We can sing about all our _feelings._ Let's do some interpretive dance about our love lives and other totally irrelevant crap, so we can bond as a big happy group. Does that sound good?"

"No," they shout, still in perfect unison. Dustin smiles thinly.

"That's right," he says. "Are we New Directions, or are we the goddamn _champions?_"

This raises a cheer, if only a small one, and the kids march back into their places with newfound confidence. It won't last, Dustin knows, because he'll have broken their spirits again by the end of the rehearsal, but it shuts them up for the time being. He feels like an asshole. He can picture Will's disapproving glower all too well, hear his disappointed voice in the back of his mind, and with it comes a fresh, stinging wave of hurt and shame and remorse.

"From the top," he calls again, and leaves it at that.

* * *

><p>It's not until the week before Regionals that Will can really bring himself to think levelheadedly about the whole thing with Dustin.<p>

It isn't so much a desire to analyze it that makes him think about it; it's just _loneliness,_ because they'd grown closer than he'd even realized, because Dustin's hair gel and toothbrush are still taking up space in Will's bathroom cabinet, because he'd only just started to get used to having the bed to himself after Terri left and now it feels too damn big for him again.

He'd convinced himself that Dustin was lying about ever having felt anything for him, because in Will's mind, love and cheating are irreconcilable. But even he realizes now how much willful ignorance it takes to think that Dustin didn't care about him.

He doesn't know what makes him think about it, when he's lying awake in bed. He thinks about the first time Dustin had ever called him 'adorable,' and he remembers how pissed he'd been, because Dustin had meant to be condescending about it. _Keep thinking that, Schuester. It's adorable._ He doesn't even remember what they'd been talking about, but he remembers the smarmy tone.

It had been an insult for a while, Dustin's way of verbally ruffling his hair like a child whenever they bickered about something, but then it had somehow...outgrown that. He remembers a chilly night in mid-November when he'd piled extra blankets onto the bed and huddled under them, and Dustin had laughed at him for it, but there hadn't been any patronizing to it. _You look kind of adorable like that, _he'd said, and he'd gotten under the blankets too even though he'd said he wasn't cold.

He remembers the warm, pleased affection in Dustin's voice when Will had been so angry about those bruises, when he'd murmured _it's really cute when you fuss over things, _and he'd barely been willing to pull away from the kiss long enough to say it.

He'd become more demonstrative after summer ended, maybe because Will had, too. He'd let his guard down, and Will knows how much effort that must have taken. Would he really have done it so extensively, for so long, just to gain a slight competitive advantage?

He remembers once, a couple months back, as they'd been lying sated and breathless next to each other, how Dustin had reached over to brush a drop of sweat from Will's collarbone and left his hand resting there, fingertips curling possessively over Will's shoulder. "God," he'd breathed, "you are so fucking gorgeous."

It had been like that kiss in the shower; the overt affection had been unnerving and exciting at the same time, and Will had filed the memory away and found himself pulling it out at lonely moments when he needed cheering. He shouldn't be thinking about it _now_. It's not going to help anything.

Maybe it makes it hurt a little less to realize that Dustin probably wasn't lying about loving him, but it doesn't change anything, because if this is what Dustin does to the people he loves, there's no hope of being able to trust him. If loving Will wasn't enough to keep him from stealing the set list, nothing's ever going to teach him not to cheat. Will can't set himself and his kids up for failure.

They've busted their _asses_ for Regionals, and when they win by a landslide, it only reinforces Will's certainty that he can't take this away from them. It doesn't matter how much he rationalizes, or whether he misses Dustin or not. He can't leave his kids open to sabotage.

"Bad news," says Jesse cheerfully when he turns up in the choir room the next day. "Vocal Adrenaline _killed_ their competition at Regionals. You'll have to deal with them at Nationals after all. You know, I'm still available as a consultant, if you need me."

There are a lot of appropriate responses to this, Will thinks, but _now Dustin won't have to worry so hard about his job security _isn't one of them, even if it's tempered by the dismay of having to face him in competition when Vocal Adrenaline is apparently doing better than ever.

_I'll see him in New York, then,_ is even less appropriate. He finds himself dwelling on it anyway, for the rest of the day.


	9. Chapter 9

There isn't a single thing going right for Dustin right now.

It's not supposed to be like this. _Other_ people can have their lives fall apart at the seams, but damn it, Dustin's supposed to be above that. He's supposed to have a job where his talent is valued and a fantastic sex life with people who are just as hot as he is. And for a while, he'd at least had one of those things, but then the sex life had inadvertently evolved into a love life, and maybe that's where it had gone off the rails. And despite the utter trainwreck it had turned into, he can't think of anything now but getting it back. It's lonely without Will, and quiet, and Dustin's never known anyone before whose absence could make him miserable. He doesn't know what to do with this.

He should know better by now. Will was nothing but a distraction, and that's the last thing he can afford right now, with Nationals looming on the horizon and his job on the line. If there's one thing he shouldn't be plotting, it's how to make Will take him back, but one night sleeping on his office couch because he hates that his pillowcases don't smell like Will's hair gel anymore is one night too many. It's beyond pathetic. He should be sleeping in his office because he doesn't have time to go home, not because he doesn't want to.

Will's convinced that Dustin is some kind of morally bankrupt abomination, and if only Dustin can prove him wrong, maybe he'll stand a chance of getting Will to forgive him. The cheating can't be taken back, but he has plenty of other moral failings that Will had been fond of criticizing. There are still things he can work on, aren't there?

He's still pondering the dilemma when he sits down in his usual auditorium seat and finds everyone there except his soloist. "Where's Sunshine?" he demands.

The others fidget, looking anxiously at each other. "Spit it out," Dustin snaps. He doesn't have time for this shit.

"She's sick," Lisa says, wrapping her arms nervously around herself. "She was puking in the bathroom last I checked on her."

Dustin is about tell her that's no excuse, because no Vocal Adrenaline director has ever excused lateness because of vomiting and he's not going to be the one to start, but damn it, there's Will's disapproving glower in the back of his mind, Will's voice hissing _What's wrong with you? Why would you do that?_ He reluctantly bites back the lecture.

"She's got five minutes," he says. "Everyone else, get in your places."

While the others are murmuring amongst themselves with surprise, Sunshine comes dashing out from backstage, wiping her mouth and looking panicked and slightly green.

"I'm here," she says, looking fretfully at the clock. "I'm sorry, Coach, I'm really sorry..."

Dustin eyes her, trying and failing to think of what Will would say to a student in this situation. Will would probably have been in the bathroom holding her hair back. Failing that, he'd probably tell her to go home and feel better, and Dustin's not going to go that far.

He sighs. "Just get into position. And if you have to throw up again, leave the stage. You have permission."

It's not much, by most standards, but the kids are staring at him now, and he wonders uneasily what he's getting himself into. He remembers how devastated they were when they'd been wrong about his having changed, and he hadn't even realized then that they'd thought he was deliberately being kinder to them. Now he's going to have to figure out some way to maintain this level of decency, or...to be honest, he's not sure what might happen.

Probably nothing, objectively speaking. The kids will perform as mechanically well as they ever did, and if their spirits are crushed, well, that's a time-honored Vocal Adrenaline tradition. He doesn't have anything to lose, really, either way. And he could tell Will about this. He could make Will listen to him, make Will give him another chance, if only he could prove that he knows how to be something like a teacher.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go."

He'd been concerned that being too lenient with them would make them lazy, but he's almost startled by the routine they launch into, because he can't put his finger on what's different, but it's _good_. Maybe the energy is higher, maybe they're smiling even more furiously, but whatever it is, he's pretty sure the judges will like it. Hell, maybe this bears further investigation.

The song wraps up with a bang, and the kids wait expectantly, panting with exertion. Dustin realizes that he has no idea what to say, because all of his usual loud, disdainful criticism has suddenly ceased to apply.

"Keep doing it like that," he says finally. "I want you to maintain that energy level. That's not bad."

He's completely, utterly unprepared for the genuine smiles they give him in response.

* * *

><p>Predictably, mornings are the hardest thing about not having Dustin around anymore. Will likes routines, and he'd been...attached to theirs. It's lonelier than he'd expected, eating breakfast without company, and he's taken to just skipping it and bringing yogurt or a muffin to work with him so he can eat with Emma.<p>

He's been leaning on her more than usual recently, and he tells himself it's because he feels bad about neglecting their friendship, but he thinks she suspects otherwise. "Well, gee, Will," she'd said, not making eye contact with him as she'd anxiously buffed a strawberry. "I don't know what happened, I mean, I thought maybe you were mad at me or something, because you haven't really been talking to me much this semester. I'll be glad to have lunch with you, but it would be nice to know what's been going on, you know?"

He hasn't told her what's been going on. He hasn't even told Shannon, though he's pretty sure she's put two and two together. He's just been going through the motions and focusing all his spare energy on the preparations for Nationals.

He'd had to scrap everything they'd been working on, for safety's sake, and for a while they'd been scrambling, fearful that their chances might already be blown. He'd felt so deeply, crushingly ashamed when he'd had to tell them they'd been infiltrated, and he couldn't possibly have explained to them how and why it was his fault. There'd been nowhere for all that guilt to go but inside, festering, and every time he sees Rachel's devastated face in his mind, it's easy to hate Dustin all over again.

But they've improvised before and they'll do it again, and they're _better_ at it than Vocal Adrenaline. He was an idiot to believe Dustin, hyper-competitive Dustin with his unresolved mommy issues, could ever really be okay with that. He should have gone with his gut instinct to begin with. It doesn't matter what else they've come to feel for each other, or how good he feels about himself when he has Dustin's arms wrapped around him, or how surprisingly warmly Dustin can smile when Will does something affectionate. First and foremost, they'll always be rivals.

He leaves rehearsal that night with the intention of just heading home, maybe coming up with some ideas for costume designs, but he doesn't want to be alone. Not yet, anyway. He needs a drink first, and not the kind of drink that involves staring into his fireplace and thinking of the empty space next to him on the couch. And music would be nice, too, different music than what he's been rehearsing over and over all month.

He pulls into the parking lot of the little karaoke bar and shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks inside. Maybe he'll sing something. Something loud, and distracting, and maybe a little angry. He squints through the dim light, looking for his usual spot at the bar, and makes out a tall, broad figure already sitting there.

When he locks eyes with Dustin from across the bar, he knows that they haven't been trying to avoid each other. Not really. It would have been easy to just stop coming here, because the karaoke isn't even that good; the bowling alley would be good enough. They'd both known this was a possibility.

He's not naive enough to think Dustin will try to apologize, or anything like that. It's not his way. To be honest, Will doesn't want him to, because he wouldn't accept it, and he doesn't want to be cruel.

After a moment, Dustin turns away and starts chatting with the bartender. Will recognizes that flirtatious smile of his, the way he's holding eye contact with her because he knows how arresting his eyes are, and he can hear that deep, wicked laugh from where he's sitting. Will has no claim on any of that anymore, but it makes him flush with sudden and unexpected jealousy anyway. He's doing it on purpose, he thinks, trying to get to me, but honestly, knowing Dustin, he'd probably be hitting on the bartender whether Will was there or not. It doesn't do anything to quell the restless, churning agitation in his stomach when he thinks of Dustin sharing that laugh with anyone else, going home with someone else and singing in their shower in the morning. Will wonders if he already has.

It doesn't matter, and a newly self-aware part of Will knows he's being a hypocrite. He's been wondering more and more lately if he can talk to Emma about giving it another shot, wondering if those eight months with Dustin weren't just a wrong turn on the weird, convoluted road that is his love life. He can't fault Dustin for thinking along the same lines.

The woman at the karaoke machine finishes "These Boots Were Made For Walking" and puts down the microphone, and Dustin gets up to go claim it. If he notices the way Will's eyes follow him, he doesn't acknowledge it. Will looks away. He's being an idiot.

He's staring down into his drink when the first jaunty notes float from the speakers, and he frowns, processing them.

_"I try to discover / A little something to make me sweeter / Oh baby, refrain / From breaking my heart..."_

He raises his head again, meets Dustin's eyes, and knows, with an unwelcome jolt of excitement, that his attention hasn't gone unnoticed. When the thrill dissipates, though, Will almost has to laugh. Not because he feels like mirth right now, or because he wants to hurt Dustin's feelings, but just because who but Dustin, with his endearingly bizarre sense of romance, would try to woo someone with Erasure?

_"I'm so in love with you, I'll be forever blue / That you give me no reason / Why you're making me work so hard..."_

_You know exactly why I'm making you work so hard_, Will thinks grimly, and then has to correct himself, because he's not making Dustin work for anything. That would imply that he's willing to consider taking Dustin back, and he isn't.

It's not entirely about the lyrics, though. This is exactly the kind of song they would have sung together, on those rare mornings when Dustin got to the shower first, because it's fun and it's loud and it's well-suited to his voice and it would leave them warm and happy and joking around with each other over breakfast. Will feels a pang of regret that they never had sung it together.

_"And if I should falter / Would you open your arms out to me?"_ Dustin's not looking at him anymore, but Will knows when he's being sung to. Against all rational judgment, there's a part of him that's completely melted, because for Dustin, this is romantic. Romantic, sweet, begging forgiveness that Will wishes he could give, because he can't resist being seduced with song. It's how anyone who knows him would try to win his heart. It's how he would do it, were their positions reversed.

But they never would be. That's the whole problem. He'll never know what it's like to be in the position of having to apologize for cheating and stealing and betraying a loved one, because he has a conscience.

_"What religion or reason / Could drive a man to forsake his lover?"_ Nothing to do with religion, and everything to do with the fact that Will hadn't been the one doing the forsaking. _"I hear you calling,/ Oh baby, please / Give a little respect / To me..."_

Will stays long enough to hear the end of the song, because he's missed Dustin's voice. He hails the bartender to settle his tab, and walks out the door before he can change his mind. He doesn't look back to see Dustin's reaction. He doesn't want to know.

There seems to be a damper on the next day's rehearsal, and he doesn't know why, because spirits had been perfectly high yesterday. The kids' confidence is unstable, swinging from assured to despondent, and Will can't help but think it's his fault. It's not a comfortable feeling at all. He's not used to blaming himself for anything, but he knows they wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for him, and it eats at him.

He comes across Rachel one afternoon, sniffling in the corner of the room and clutching a folder of sheet music to her chest. "Rachel?" he asks, frowning deeply. "What's wrong?"

"It's my fault, Mr. Schue," she sniffles. "That we had to redo our set list. I'm the one who let it happen."

Will swallows back another wave of guilt. If he didn't know for a fact that it was his own damn fault, he might not have had trouble believing her, but this just makes everything worse. "No, Rachel, it's not your fault at all. I promise you, it's not. Don't worry."

"But I think it was Jesse who betrayed us." Her eyes well up with tears, making the pinpricks of guilt stab all the harder. "I should have learned my lesson after what he did two years ago. I'm so _stupid!_ Why did I keep talking to him? It has to have been him. It couldn't have been anyone else."

"Rachel." Will rubs his eyes, trying to think how he can phrase this. "I know that it wasn't Jesse, and I'm absolutely positive it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. And we're going to win this thing even if we did have to start over, okay? Just keep believing in that. We're going to beat Vocal Adrenaline no matter what it takes. Everything's going to be okay."

Rachel wipes the tears from her face, seeming to brighten a little. "All right. As-as long as you're sure." She straightens up, pulling herself back together, and gives him a shaky smile. "You're right, Mr. Schue. Everything's going to be fine."

If only Will could convince himself so easily.

He's in no mood to deal with Jesse the next time he turns up, after a couple weeks of yo-yoing morale. He's never in the mood, but especially not now. "Jesse," he says, summoning all his patience, "I've told you more than once that I don't need your help. Please leave."

Jesse, as ever, is unfazed. He shrugs and heads amiably for the door, but pauses with his hand on the doorframe and turns around. "If you want, I'll go. I just wanted to bring you some good news."

Will narrows his eyes. "What would that be?"

"Vocal Adrenaline won't be a problem for you anymore." Jesse smiles brightly. "Goolsby's landed himself in the hospital. Rehearsals have completely stopped until they can find a replacement, because it doesn't look like he'll be back anytime soon. This is your chance to overtake Vocal Adrenaline while they're weak, so I'd-"

"What?" It's taken time for that sentence to register, even when he'd only really heard the first part, and his chest is filling with ice. "What do you mean, he's in the hospital? What happened to him?" _Another deranged violent parent? Is he sick? He didn't look sick when I saw him, he looked fine, he never gets sick..._

There's too much overt concern in his voice, and the arch of Jesse's eyebrow suggests that it isn't lost on him, but Will doesn't care.

"I heard it was a car accident," says Jesse, shrugging noncommittally. "I don't know how bad it is, I just heard he was likely to be out of commission for a while. This is a good thing for you, isn't it?"

"What hospital?" If ever there was a time when Will actually needed Jesse's wealth of knowledge about these things, it's now.

Jesse folds his arms, scrutinizing Will with a critical eye. "I actually did look into that," he says, "just because it seemed like the kind of info that could end up being useful for something later. But why do you want to know?"

"Because I need to talk to him," Will grinds out. His heart is pounding in his throat, and he can't handle being toyed-with when he doesn't know what's going on. Jesse nods slowly, and Will wants to grab him and shake him.

"You're going to try to get info out of him when he's all doped up on painkillers, huh? Smart move. Good payback for what he did with your set list. I'm pretty sure he's at St. Mary's, but I could be wrong..."

Will doesn't bother thanking him. He's out the door before Jesse can finish the sentence.

The drive to St. Mary's Hospital takes about half an hour, and Will's heart doesn't stop hammering for a second the entire time. He's reminded, perversely, of the last time he'd driven to see Dustin after a conversation with Jesse, when he'd been armed with the incriminating video and he'd known Dustin had betrayed him. This is different. There had been no painful uncertainty last time; he'd been angry then, but now he's scared. For all he knows, Dustin could be in a coma. Jesse wouldn't have cared enough to find out.

_I'll talk to him,_ he thinks, _I'll hear him out like he wanted, just as long as he's okay. He has to be okay. I'll listen to him this time..._ He doesn't know who he's mentally bargaining with, but he feels like it has to have some effect as long as he's sincere, and he is, he really is. All his anger at Dustin feels petty and stupid right now, when he doesn't even know if Dustin will be in any shape for talking.

He's never been to this hospital before, and the layout is disorienting. He approaches the woman at the desk, shaken and anxious. "I'm here to see Dustin Goolsby," he says, "but I don't know what floor he's on."

"Give me a minute." She takes her time looking it up, and Will's palms begin to sweat. "Fifth floor. No visitors allowed right now. Are you family?"

"What?" The question isn't completely out of nowhere, but it throws him. He feels lost and inarticulate right now, unable to pull his thoughts together. "No, I-he doesn't have any family here; they all live out of state...I'm a friend. Please, I just need to make sure he's okay."

"I can't let you in to see him." The woman turns back to her work, leaving Will helplessly at a loss.

"He'd want to see me," he protests, unable in his anxiety to say anything more compelling. "I don't even know what happened to him-I just need to know what's going on."

"Relatives only. There's really nothing I can do." The woman is completely unmoved, and without even intending to, Will finds himself raising his voice to get through to her.

"He doesn't _have_ any relatives here!" he shouts. "They're all four hundred miles away! They probably don't even know anything's wrong! I'm the only family he has around here!"

"What's going on?" The conversation is interrupted by a young doctor in surgical scrubs, who seems to have been listening in for a few minutes.

"I'm going to have to ask this guy to leave if he doesn't calm down," says the receptionist. Will throws up his hands.

"I'll handle it," the doctor says. "Don't worry about it." As suspicious as the receptionist looks, she's eager to wash her hands of the problem, and she shakes her head and leaves them to it. The surgeon motions for Will to follow him.

"Look," he says. "I'm not allowed to tell you anything about his condition other than that he's stable, and I can advise you to come back later, but I understand that this is urgent and you're worried. If you're his partner, I can...fudge the rules a little."

"I..." Will swallows. He's clearly expected to confirm or deny in some way, and he doesn't know how to do that. He can lie, or he can explain and risk getting turned away, but he can't hesitate for much longer.

He doesn't want to wait until he's allowed to visit. He wants to see Dustin now, because he knows damn well nobody else is likely to visit him. The thought of Dustin lying alone in a hospital bed, with no company except the knowledge that his career is over, makes Will's heart ache.

"Yes," he says, "I'm his partner."

The fifth floor is a relatively quiet floor, and Dustin's room is silent, without even the TV on. Will takes a seat by the bed, swallowing a pang of sympathy, because he knows how much the quiet must bother Dustin and he doesn't know why there's nothing to offset it. Dustin's asleep, and from what Will can see, he looks all right, just ashen and bruised and completely out of place in the pale blue hospital gown. Somehow, it's incredibly jarring to see him in clothing that isn't black.

He takes Dustin's unresponsive hand, and waits. It occurs to him, after a minute or two, that he's never actually done this before-that for all the other unexpected intimacy in their relationship, they've never actually had occasion to hold hands. Certainly not in public, where they'd always pretended to be platonic acquaintances, and not in private, when they had other things to do. The weight of Dustin's hand in his is unfamiliar, and the regret that comes with that realization is a little stunning. _You're such a fucking sap,_ he can imagine Dustin saying, and it only makes things worse.

Dustin's fingers curl around his, finally, and he raises his other hand to rub his eyes before evidently remembering that he's got an IV drip attached to that arm. "...Will?"

"Yeah." Will exhales, and it strikes him that he could probably have been using the last ten minutes to think of what exactly to say, because right now, he's drawing an absolute blank. "It's me."

Dustin lets out a familiar, disdainful huff, but he squeezes Will's hand tighter as if afraid Will might withdraw it. "How'd you find out I was here?"

Will absently strokes the side of Dustin's palm with his thumb. "Jesse St. James."

"That little weasel." The disgust in Dustin's voice is almost comforting; it's evidence that he's still himself, but that's not enough to ease Will's concern.

"How are you doing?" he asks, because it's more relevant than 'what happened,' although he wants to know that, too. Dustin exhales slowly, glancing away, but he seems gratified that Will would ask.

"I broke my leg in two places and apparently they took out my spleen, but who needs a spleen anyway, right?" He shrugs. "I'll live. I'm trying to get them to just let me out of here already."

"What?" Will knows how much Dustin hates having to depend on other people, and he knows this must be torture for him, but it's clear that Dustin's in no shape to leave the hospital just yet. "You were in a _car accident_. You just said you're recovering from surgery. If the doctors are telling you to stay here, you stay here."

Under other circumstances, this might have started an argument. Now, though, it provokes the ghost of a smile as Dustin turns back to look at him. "Are you fussing over me again?"

It's impossible not to soften at that, just a little. "Where would you be if I didn't?" Will asks. Dustin laughs, quiet and mirthless, and twines his fingers tightly with Will's, as if still afraid that he needs to physically make Will stay.

Will's not going to leave him. He disentangles his hand after a moment, pulling away, and Dustin looks hurt, but Will only wants to brush Dustin's hair away from his face and examine the stitches in his forehead. It's a small wound, but there are bruises around it and around his eye, near where they'd been the last time Will had found himself doing this. His fingers gradually settle into a rhythm, stroking Dustin's hair, and Dustin closes his eyes and leans gratefully into the touch.

"God, that feels good," he murmurs, his whole body relaxing as if a weight's been lifted from it. Will's heart melts.

"I think we're going to be okay," he says quietly.

"Yeah?" That's the first genuine smile Will's seen from Dustin in a long time, and god, he's missed being the only one who can make him do that.

"I know it'll be hard," he says, fingers still gently massaging, and Dustin gives a soft, half-asleep hum of acknowledgment. "Your job was your life. But you'll find something better than Vocal Adrenaline. And I'll be there."

Throughout all of this, Dustin's been starting to doze off, lightly nuzzling against Will's hand. At this, he snaps sharply to attention. "What?" He jerks away and sits up in one swift motion, wincing at it pulls at his stitches. "What are you talking about? My job isn't going anywhere."

"But-" Will had taken for granted that Dustin knew they were looking for a replacement. Or even if he didn't know, that he would accept it now as penance for what he'd done, because he knows as well as Will does that this can't work as long as they're rivals. He'd thought Dustin wanted this. He'd thought Dustin had chosen him over Carmel. "Jesse said they were already looking for a replacement. It's too late, Dustin. Why do you even _want_ to go back, if they won't even allow you a few days to recover from something that could have killed you?"

"Because I have a fucking career to think of, that's why," Dustin snaps. "That replacement they're searching for is temporary. There was _nothing_ in my contract about hospital stays. Probably an oversight on their part, but if they try to fire me for this, I'll sue their asses into the ground for wrongful termination. You tell Jesse St. James to tell them that I'll be back at work tomorrow if I have to break out of here while the nurses are switching shifts."

"No," Will snarls back, still reeling from having the second chance he hadn't even expected to give thrown back in his face. "I'm not going to be your messenger boy so you can stay in the competition when you don't deserve to be there. If you want to go back to work at the expense of your health just so that you can screw me over after you _lied_ to me-"

"Just so that I can screw you over? You think I _want _to be doing this?" Dustin's clearly struggling to keep from raising his voice. "You think I don't want to tell my boss to go fuck himself and go home with you instead?"

"No, I don't think you want to!" Will gets up from his chair, ignoring the way Dustin compulsively moves as if to get out of bed. "Nothing will ever mean as much to you as winning does. I can't believe I was stupid enough to think you would change."

"Why should I have to change?" Dustin demands. "I thought you liked me the way I was. I mean, aside from the cheating. Forget the cheating."

"Forget the cheating?" Will actually laughs at that, an incredulous breath of a laugh, completely devoid of humor. He can't believe Dustin would actually have the gall to say that. "Forget the cheating. Forget that you _used_ me. Forget that there's no way this is going to be the last time Carmel asks you to sabotage me. Forget that you shouldn't even _be_ at Nationals, because you got there with material that _you stole from me_. Is there anything else I'm supposed to forget, Dustin?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Dustin says, and Will can't tell whether he's angry or chastened. "Five minutes ago you were telling me everything was going to be fine, and now as soon as you find out I'm not going to quit my job for you, you hate me again? What the hell do you want from me?"

"I want you to be _sorry_, and I want to be sure you're never going to do this again!" That's most of what Will wants out of Dustin. But it's not all of it. He wants justice. It isn't fair that Carmel can get away with such dishonesty year after year and nobody ever calls them on it. "I want you to face the consequences for what you did," he growls. "I want you to admit that you shouldn't have won Regionals. You want me to forgive you, Dustin? You really, truly want this to be behind us?"

"Of course I do," Dustin says, but he knows there's got to be a catch, because his voice falters.

"Forfeit," says Will quietly. "Own up to the cheating, and forfeit."

He should have known Dustin wouldn't take that lying down. He can't help but be disappointed by the horror on Dustin's face. "What? No, I can't do that!"

"You should have been disqualified for what you did," Will says, unwavering. "You know you shouldn't be there. It isn't right for you to be there. You don't deserve to be at Nationals, and I know that you know that."

"And what about my kids?" Dustin demands. "You know how hard I work those brats. They didn't have anything to do with the cheating."

"Oh, come on!" This, this is just an insult now. "You don't give a damn about your kids. You've never cared about them. You don't get to use them as an excuse now."

"You want me to walk into that auditorium," Dustin says, his voice low, "and look them in the eyes, and tell them that after all the sweat and blood and tears they put into their routine, I went and threw it away for my own personal reasons. You want me to tell Sunshine Corazon she stayed here in the States for absolutely fucking nothing. Those kids have given _everything_ for this competition, and no, Will, I don't _like _the little shits very much, but I know they deserve better than that. After everything else I've done to them, I would go to hell for doing that on top of it."

And that's what stuns Will into silence. Not the words, not the logic of the argument, but the realization that Dustin _means_ this. That whatever other motives he might have, this is coming from a place of genuine protectiveness. It's what he's always hoped Dustin might someday understand about being a teacher, and he swallows, wondering if any of that was due to his influence or if Dustin managed it on his own. It doesn't matter. Dustin's trying to do what he thinks is right, sacrificing for it, and Will can't just shove him away again now. He's not going to discourage that.

"Talk to me again after Nationals," he says, and Dustin narrows his eyes, confused.

"Why?" he asks, wary and clearly still hurt. Will's not going to be able to reassure him yet. Things haven't changed that much.

"I can't risk the possibility that you might sabotage us again. I trusted you last time, and you violated that. I want to give you another chance. Believe me, I do. And I will. But I'd be doing my kids a disservice if I didn't do everything in my power to make sure their hard work isn't for nothing. You understand that." There's a tiny part of him that feels like an asshole for making that sound like a challenge, even though it is a challenge. It's not lost on Dustin, either; Will recognizes that brief flash of mulish defiance. But Dustin doesn't argue. He looks away, letting out a resigned breath.

"Okay," he says. "We'll talk again after Nationals."

He doesn't sound hopeful, and Will feels a brief stab of regret, because he doesn't think Dustin really believes him.

He reaches out and squeezes Dustin's shoulder for reassurance. "I mean it," he says. "I'll see you later."

* * *

><p>Getting out of the hospital is an ordeal, but they can't legally keep him, and they finally cut him loose after making him sign about seven different waivers. The surgeon could have accidentally sewn up an entire tray of surgical instruments inside him and Dustin wouldn't be able to sue them now, but he doesn't care. He's got work to do.<p>

Getting to Carmel is even more of an ordeal, considering that he no longer has a car and couldn't drive right now even if he did, but he finds a cab that can accommodate his crutches, hightails it to work and heads straight to the auditorium. He's not going to give them the chance to fire him. The paperwork probably hasn't gone through yet, and they haven't actually notified him of anything, so he can reasonably claim ignorance.

The kids are assembled in the auditorium when he gets there, and he can overhear snippets of their conversation.

"I heard he's in a coma."

"Someone said he has third-degree burns all over his face." This from Adrian, sounding like he's trying and failing to be somber.

"That sucks," says Lisa, sounding more genuinely mournful. "He was really handsome."

"Maybe now we'll get someone who isn't a _dick_," says one of the sopranos. "I'm not sorry."

"Come on, guys," Sunshine urges. "We shouldn't be saying things like that, after what happened to him."

Dustin's heard enough, and he limps down the aisle toward his usual seat. "How about you all stop talking about me like I'm dead," he says, "and get into places?" He can't help but relish their audible shock.

"Coach!" Lisa gasps. "You're okay?"

He's not, exactly, but he won't disabuse her of the notion. "Yep. Handsomeness intact. Now stop wasting time and start the music already." This, he thinks, settling into his chair, has got to be better for his recovery than languishing in that hospital bed. Will can take his fake concern and his stupid ultimatum and his hollow promises and shove them up his ass.

Four hours later, he can't even focus on the music. Rehearsal is halfway over, his leg is shooting blinding pain at him, and he can't tell whether his stitches are bleeding or whether he's just sweating like a pig under the spotlights. This was a bad idea. Oh, god, was this a bad idea.

"Take a ten-minute break," he orders them, cutting off the music with a dizzy wave of his hand. He's expecting gratitude for the extra five minutes, or at least surprise, but the confusion on the kids' faces evaporates as soon as they take a good look at him. That can't be a good sign.

"Are you okay, Coach?" Adrian asks, as the kids file out into the lobby. Dustin can't summon the energy to be touched by the concern. Everything in the world is pissing him off right now.

"Shut up," he says, grabbing his crutches and making his way to the backstage bathrooms.

No wonder they're asking. His face is positively gray. His hair is matted with sweat and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He closes his eyes and fumbles in his pocket for the painkillers they'd given him at the hospital, praying they won't make him too loopy to direct.

"Come on, Dustin," he murmurs to himself. "Get your shit together. You can do this."

How he manages to get through the rest of the night, he'll never quite know. He suspects a lot of it does have to do with the drugs, but he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of staying coherent. By the end of the night, all he can think about is finding somewhere to curl up and fall asleep. Home, preferably, but he knows that's not really an option; the cab company had given him a hard enough time about driving all the way out to Carmel when it wasn't past midnight. He'll just sleep in his office. He's used to that by now.

He leans against the door for a moment, appreciating the coolness of the wood against his forehead, but the handle won't budge when he turns it. The chill down his back this time has nothing to do with the temperature, and he jerks frantically at the handle despite knowing it's not going to open. They can't have changed the locks on him already-but they can, and they have, and he has no clue what the hell he's going to do now. "Come on," he snarls, kicking at the door with his good leg, "come on, _open_, you mother_fucker_-"

"Coach?"

Sunshine, with Adrian following close behind, is peering nervously at him from around the corner. Dustin doesn't even have the energy to yell at them, though he otherwise would.

"What?" he says, defeated. Can't they just go the hell home and leave him to his humiliation? He'll sleep out in the hallway before he'll bring himself to suck it up and call Will for help. That's not an option, and if it were, it would be the only option he had.

Sunshine and Adrian exchange glances, taking in the locked door and Dustin's crutches. "Do you need a ride?" Adrian ventures, finally.

Of all the things Dustin might have expected them to say, that wasn't one of them. His instinctive reaction is to tell them to fuck off, because he doesn't need help from a couple of kids. Except that he does. He's stunned that they're even offering it, because he knows perfectly well how much they hate him, but he can't afford to decline, even if he may never live it down. _Christ,_ he thinks, _how the mighty have fallen._

He swallows his pride, but it's a long, long moment before he can force himself to say anything. "Yeah," he says, "that would help."

"We carpool a lot," Sunshine explains, as they head for the deserted parking lot, "but Adrian had to get something from his locker and we had to find a way to get into the building and that's why we're still here..."

On any other occasion, Dustin would probably be telling her to shut up, because her cheery voice gives him a headache when she's not singing. Now, he does her the courtesy of merely tuning her out. He's not going to insult them when they're doing him a favor. He just wants to get home.

The passenger seat of Adrian's car almost has enough room to stretch out his injured leg, and he silently thanks the booster club for that. They'd offered Sunshine an even fancier car, hoping to convince her to stay another year after graduation, but she doesn't seem to have a valid Ohio driver's license or any desire to get herself one. Dustin has to admit, sometimes he gets just a little bit of a kick out of the way the obnoxious PTA parents trip all over themselves to butter Sunshine up when they don't really know the first thing about her.

He leans his head on his hand and rubs his eyes, not particularly thrilled that his students are going to know where he lives now, but there's nothing for it. He doesn't look up until Adrian turns on the radio.

"We like to sing together on the way home," he explains, a little sheepishly. "You don't mind, do you, Coach? I mean, it's good practice."

Dustin hates the pang of loneliness that crops up every time he's inadvertently reminded of Will, and it's worse than ever right now. It makes him feel weak. He's already shown enough weakness in front of his kids for one night.

"Whatever," he says, looking out the window. "I don't care."

He doesn't give a shit what they do on their own time, really, and he tells himself he'll just tune them out, but he can't seem to restrain his automatic instinct to listen with a critical ear.

_"Now and then I think of when we were together, / Like when you said you felt so happy you could die..."_

Dustin only vaguely recognizes the song, but he can tell Adrian is slightly off-key, and has to stop himself from correcting him. Sunshine is cheerfully humming harmonies in the backseat, and that sounds great, but he doesn't say that either.

_"But you didn't have to cut me off, / Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing, / I don't even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough..."_

Dustin eyes the radio balefully, starting to resent this station. He doesn't need to be hearing this shit right now, and Adrian is flat on the chorus anyway and that just makes it worse. Will would have been pitch-perfect if he were singing this.

_"Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over..."_ Dustin winces a bit for reasons that have nothing to do with Sunshine's voice. No, her voice is great, which is the one comfort he can think of here, because it bodes well for Nationals. Otherwise, his sympathies are with whoever wrote this stupid song, partly because it sounds like his love life sucks as much as Dustin's does, and partly because Adrian's butchering the chorus again. It's a far cry from what Dustin's used to.

Well, if his kids can't sing along to the radio without fucking it up, it's his duty as a coach to set an example, especially as he'd been half tempted to hum along anyway. He joins Adrian, pointedly making sure to sing on-pitch. _"You didn't have to stoop so low, / Have your friends collect your records and then change your number, / Guess that I don't need that, though, / Now you're just somebody that I used to know..."_

Rather than seeming chastened, Adrian grins. Apparently, he's taking this as a compliment, or something. He takes the alternating lines of the ending, his pitch much improved, leaving Dustin the other half while Sunshine keeps going with the background.

Just a little, just a tiny bit, Dustin is kind of enjoying this. It's not often that he gets to show off for his students, not like Will's always doing, and he hasn't had anyone to sing with at all since Will left. It's kind of nice.

He'll sing along with the next one, too, because why the hell not. He needs some cheering up, and it's an exuberant, cheerful song. He files it away in his mind as a good one for the shower, and then promptly wishes he hadn't, because it instantly deflates his good mood again.

"So...what happened, Coach?" Adrian looks over at him, taking his eyes off the road. Dustin stares back, not sure what he's talking about.

"What happened with what?" he says.

"With the accident," Sunshine clarifies. Dustin rubs his eyes, not especially wanting to go into detail.

"Some drunk guy plowed into my car," he says. "It wasn't my fault."

"And you just broke your leg?" she asks. "It looks pretty bad."

"They took out my spleen, too," he says vaguely, wondering why they're even bothering to ask. Are they just probing for weaknesses they can exploit? What do they want from him?

Adrian stares at him, and Dustin really wishes he'd stop doing that, because he's already been in too many car wrecks for one lifetime. "You're back at work two days after an emergency splenectomy? Coach, you can't_ do_ that. You're gonna hurt yourself. You looked like you were in a lot of pain earlier." Sunshine nods along earnestly.

Dustin remembers that Adrian's mother is a doctor or something like that, but that doesn't mean the kid knows whereof he speaks, and the presumption is pissing him off. "What have I spent the past two years telling you people?" he demands. "If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong. Pain is the price you pay for greatness."

Silence falls in the car, and after a moment, Dustin starts to regret his outburst. They're almost to his neighborhood. He sighs, slumping in his seat. The painkillers are starting to wear off.

"It's not your problem," he says. "Your job is to focus on winning. I can handle myself just fine."

"We were just saying," Adrian mumbles.

He pulls into the parking lot, and Dustin struggles to get out of the car without having to ask for help. Adrian reaches over to hand him his crutches.

Dustin's not sure what to do about all this, or what to say now. He clears his throat, feeling the awkward, unfamiliar compulsion to be civil.

"Thanks," he says curtly. Sunshine gives him a wan smile through the window.

"See you tomorrow, Coach," she says.

As he turns away and limps towards the building, he realizes, to his surprise, that he really does feel a little less dismal now.

* * *

><p>New Directions' flight to New York is uneventful. The kids aren't quite as giddy as they'd been the first time they'd come here, but there's an anticipatory tension. Will can hear them behind him on the plane, intently discussing choreography and practicing their harmonies. There's no last-minute writing now; they're not doing original songs this year when it hadn't gotten them into the top ten last time. Watching them work this devotedly makes his heart swell with pride, and he knows, he's <em>sure<em>, that it's going to pay off. It has to. They deserve it. They've worked every bit as hard as Vocal Adrenaline, in their own way, no matter how Dustin would beg to differ.

Maybe he should be supervising the kids more closely than he had last year, given what had happened with the pillows, but he trusts that they've learned their lesson, and they're all almost adults. They'll be all right without him for a few hours.

He doesn't leave the hotel this time. He's not planning to spend his day singing to an empty auditorium. It might cheer him up a little, but instead he hovers around the bar for a little while, nurses a beer while periodically scanning the room, and finally gets up to take an absentminded walk through the hallways.

It really is coincidence when he runs into Dustin by one of the ice machines, because he hadn't even known what floor the Vocal Adrenaline contingent was staying on, and he hadn't really been looking this time. Dustin's leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, but otherwise, there's nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance. Will knows, because he's looking carefully, checking for any other sign of injury or weakness or pain. He wonders how those stitches are holding up, because he knows how careless Dustin is about them.

They stare wordlessly at each other, sizing each other up, and for one bleak moment it feels like nothing's changed at all since last spring. For all Will knows, Dustin could just be pondering how best to destroy him. He certainly doesn't seem to know what, if anything, to say, so Will does him the courtesy of breaking the silence. "How are you?"

Dustin exhales slowly. "Fine. I'm doing fine. Aside from, you know, the obvious."

"I was asking about the obvious." He wonders how Dustin's managing to get through all those long hours of rehearsal. Not for the first time, he has to admire the man's tenacity. Dustin shrugs, clearly not really wanting to talk about it, and the silence stretches on for another several awkward seconds.

"So," says Dustin resignedly. "This is it, huh."

Will sighs. "This is it." In every possible sense of the term, really. He offers a hand, to be sporting, because they owe each other that much respect.

Dustin takes it, though he makes a face that suggests that he finds it a bit absurd, and Will realizes belatedly that it is just a little absurd to be formally shaking hands with someone he'd been fucking on his living room floor not so very long ago. But this is where they stand now, apparently, and this is a competition. "May the best man win," says Dustin.

He doesn't let go, and Will doesn't let go, and they fall silent again as their grip tightens on each others' hands. Will should let go. He should get back. They both should.

_This is stupid._

He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Dustin's hair and drags him down into a needy, clinging kiss, and maybe they know each other too well by now, maybe they're thinking in sync, because Dustin doesn't hesitate for even a split second, not even with surprise, before kissing fervently back. He sucks warmly at Will's lower lip and lets one of his crutches fall to the ground as he wraps his arm around Will's waist, and Will's hand has fisted itself in Dustin's shirt nearly of its own accord. Anyone could round the corner and see them, and Will doesn't even care. Not right now.

"Fuck, Will," Dustin breathes, when they pause for air. "I missed you."

Will hadn't even realized until now how mutual that sentiment is. God, he wants to take Dustin back to his room and make up for lost time, drag him into bed and put on some music and fuck him into the mattress, and just lie there with him until someone needs them for something. He wants Dustin's arms around him again, no matter how little he would have believed at this time last year that he could ever want something like that. He wants to make sure he's all right, wants to fuss over him, wants to take _care _of him.

He reaches into his pocket for his spare room key and tucks it into Dustin's shirt pocket, his palm sliding upwards nearly of its own accord to cup Dustin's face. "One more day," he promises. "It'll all be over tomorrow. We'll talk then, I swear."

* * *

><p>The auditorium is packed already by the time Will winds his way through the crowd to his seat. The kids are all seated around him; they're not performing until near the end, which Will thinks is a good omen-they'll be fresher in the judges' minds than Vocal Adrenaline, who are stuck right in the middle.<p>

He needs to stop thinking of Vocal Adrenaline as their only competition, when there are dozens of others here that they also need to beat, but he's trained his mind into thinking that way and now he can't make it stop. And as the performances wear on, none of them, with the exception of the white-clad girls who'd sung that Usher song last year, really stick out to him. His kids are better, and he knows it, with confidence that doesn't feel shaky and blustery like it had last year. They're prepared for this. They've returned to their roots, to the classics they're best at.

Vocal Adrenaline, according to the program, is performing something by Florence and the Machine. What Dustin was thinking, Will isn't sure-it's a gamble; the judges are stodgy and set in their ways, some of them old enough that he's sure they probably miss the days when ancient Broadway show tunes and folk songs were _de rigeur_.

As the Carmel kids take the stage, though, he notices his kids fidgeting. The costumes are impressive, he has to admit, with a bit of a sinking feeling. They're more flamboyant than what Dustin usually goes for. Vocal Adrenaline tends to be rather minimalist about the costuming, and Will wonders if Dustin's trying to make up for shortcomings in the performance itself. There's a lot of red in them, which surprises him. Dustin never uses red or green; he always costumes in blues and yellows and neutrals because he doesn't want anyone to find out that he's colorblind. Will might actually be the only person, aside from his parents, who _does_ know that.

He's overanalyzing this, and falling into his old habit of psychoanalyzing Dustin, before the song's even started. His own kids are whispering amongst themselves, but they quiet, reluctantly, as Sunshine reaches for the microphone.

_"Regrets collect like old friends, / Here to relive your darkest moments, / I can see no way, I can see no way..."_

Will folds his arms and leans back with a frown, studying everything. There's not a hint of his own influence in the choreography, for which he's both relieved and a little guilty. Maybe he could have afforded to believe Dustin. Just maybe.

The dancing is typical of Vocal Adrenaline, all synchronized lifting and twirling and pirouetting-all perfectly coordinated, all rather generic, as if Dustin couldn't find it in him to be imaginative on short notice. The spectacle is still impressive, though, flashy and gymnastic even if it's not hugely inspired, and the audience gasps when one kid executes a perfect aerial backflip. Sunshine's still wailing; the dancing can't distract from her voice for long, because she's got everything the song needs, raw rough emotion and absolute perfection on the high notes.

_"And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back, / And given half the chance, would I take any of it back? / It's a fine romance, but it's left me so undone, / It's always darkest before the dawn..."_

Will still has to wonder what made Dustin choose this song. Then again, it's not exactly like his own revised set list is any less suspiciously pertinent.

He can't say that Vocal Adrenaline didn't bring the goddamn house down. The judges might be put off by the song choice, but the thunderous applause from the audience has to make up for at least a bit of it.

None of the other teams can really follow that, and despite Will's anxiety, his protectiveness of his own team, he can't help but feel the tiniest little seed of pride for Dustin too. It's dwarfed by his concern for New Directions, as it always has been, but...that had been well-done.

He squeezes all of his kids' hands in turn as they get up to rush backstage, and settles back into his seat, his heart pounding. Just for a moment, before the lights darken, he scans the auditorium once more for Dustin, but he's nowhere to be seen.

_"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, / Darlin', you give love a bad name..."_

He'd had to fight for this set list, with the kids' age-old argument that his choices are too dated and lame and embarrassing. There isn't a whole lot that's less edgy than a Bon Jovi medley, he'll admit. But he'd researched the judges, as he knows Dustin must have too, and he's pretty sure this is about as edgy as they'll put up with. And his kids are good at it, amazingly good, joyful and smiling dazzlingly, their choreography organic-looking and fresh. It brings him back to that day in the auditorium, years ago, when he'd first heard them singing "Don't Stop Believing."

They've come full circle, he thinks, in a way. Dustin would be mercilessly mocking the tears that have welled up in his eyes, so maybe it's a good thing he's nowhere in the vicinity. It doesn't even matter if they win now, Will thinks. They've gotten what they came here for.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't still want to win.

* * *

><p>It's the moment of truth. Will swallows hard to clear the trembling nervousness in his chest. The kids are crowded behind him, grabbing onto each other with anticipation, and he's dimly aware of the Vocal Adrenaline kids doing the same thing somewhere off to his left. <em>Last chance,<em> he keeps thinking, _this is their last chance to know what it's like to win Nationals_, but behind that is the unwelcome knowledge that it's Dustin's last chance too, and it's one or the other.

Dustin's standing beside the board, leaning on his crutches, but his eyes are averted, and he hasn't read the results yet. Will can hear a few of the more impatient Vocal Adrenaline kids pushing him. "Come on, Coach Goolsby, what does it say?" They'd never have been brave or comfortable enough to do that last year, and god, Will wishes it wasn't heartwarming, because that only makes things worse.

He glances up at Dustin, and with a tiny mutual nod, they steel themselves and look at the results.

**1. New Directions - Lima, Ohio**  
><strong>2. Vocal Adrenaline - Akron, Ohio<strong>  
><strong>3. Portland Scale Blazers - Portland, Maine<strong>

The list continues, but neither of them processes any more of it. Will's never felt anything quite like the combination of elation and painful sympathy that seems to be stepping on his insides right now, and he spares a look at Dustin, who's still staring at the list with utterly frozen features as if he hasn't read a word of it.

"I'm sorry," Will murmurs, and even though their kids are staring, he reaches out for just a second to touch Dustin's shoulder. It seems to snap Dustin out of his trance, and he swallows, nods, and turns to face his students. Will doesn't hear what he says to them. He's got good news to impart to his own kids.

Ten minutes later, as they're all finally beginning to disperse from the lobby, the kids dashing off to celebrate, Will takes a last look back at Vocal Adrenaline. He can remember how delighted they'd been over their second-place trophy last year, cheering and laughing and raising Sunshine onto their shoulders to parade her around. There's none of that this time, but neither do they look chastised or humbled. They look pleased. They're smiling, they're hugging, and Dustin's off to the side leaving them be, like he had last time. Before Will turns to head back to his room, he overhears Dustin address them.

"Good work. All of you."

Will swallows, throat tightening. They don't know why that has to be one of the hardest things Dustin's ever said. It breaks Will's heart, and he's reminded now of everything, every little detail, that had ever convinced him he was in love with this man.

He walks back to the elevator with the kids' little gasps of shock and elation ringing in his ears, wishing he'd been able to catch Dustin's eye, just for a moment.

He knows he should be making himself available to the kids, in case they should need him, but Dustin needs him too, doesn't he? Dustin needs comfort right now. The kids can celebrate responsibly on their own.

He takes a bottle of wine from the minibar, throws on a relaxing music channel, and stretches out on the bed, making himself comfortable.

Twenty minutes pass, his mind lost in meditation. Will takes his shirt off and tosses it aside, the better to save time when Dustin arrives. Dustin always did like to admire his abs.

Another twenty minutes, and he's starting to get antsy. They hadn't agreed on a meeting time or anything; he'd just assumed they had an understanding. Maybe that had been a stupid thing to assume.

The practical thing to do would be to call Dustin, and so he does. He never had gotten around to deleting Dustin's number from his contacts, even if they haven't spoken on the phone in weeks. But the phone rings and rings, and with each passing second Will doesn't know whether to be disheartened or angry.

He puts his shirt back on, jaw set tightly, and debates the wisest course of action. Dustin had _said_ he missed Will. He'd given every indication that he wanted to reconcile. Is he just being a sore loser? Had he been so certain he would win that he just can't handle the alternative?

Making up his mind, he stalks out the door and down to the bar, figuring there's a pretty good chance he'll find Dustin there. A thorough scan of the place reveals that he isn't, and Will's irritation mounts. He realizes that he doesn't even know where Dustin's room is, which makes this all exponentially more difficult.

Dejected and pissed, he retreats upstairs, to the ice machine, where he runs into a tipsy-looking kid he recognizes from Vocal Adrenaline. Clearly they're still in a celebratory mood, and even if Dustin should be supervising them a lot better, Will feels a little wash of affection. No matter what that second-place trophy will cost him, Dustin's still not going to rain on his kids' parade.

"Hey," he says to the kid, who arches an acerbic eyebrow. "What room is your coach in?"

"Why do you want to know?" Okay, so the rivalry is still alive and well; Will won't begrudge them that. He shrugs, trying to be disarming.

"Because I want to congratulate him," he says. "You guys did great."

"He'll probably tell your patronizing ass to fuck off," says the kid. "But he's in room 502. Knock yourself out."

"...Thanks." He's always felt a little sorry for Dustin's students, but if they're all prizes like that, maybe they deserve his drill-sergeant attitude. Not that it matters now, anyway, when Dustin's not going to be their coach anymore. He keeps forgetting that.

He knocks on the door of room 502. "Dustin? You there? It's Will."

There's no answer, no matter how many times he knocks or how long he waits. Will feels his jaw tightening with hurt and anger again. So this is how it's going to be, then. If all of that 'oh, of course I want this to be behind us, of course I want to make things right' was contingent on Dustin winning, then to hell with him, Will thinks. If he's changed his mind, let him change his mind. He can wallow in defeat on his own. Fuck him. Maybe Will can send him a t-shirt.

He doesn't sleep much that night, even though he knows they've got an early flight the next day. He drinks half the bottle of wine on his own and leaves the rest and spends the night tossing and turning and intermittently trying to distract himself with TV. It doesn't work.

_He said he missed me, damn it,_ he thinks, knowing how petulant he sounds even in his own mind, and unable not to be. He doesn't know where he went wrong. He just doesn't know what happened. He doesn't want to face the realization that he'd been counting on this, that he doesn't know what to do now that it's not working out the way he'd been convinced it would, but he feels lost.

He gets the kids through the airport and onto the plane in a fog, barely able to ensure that the enormous trophy gets checked safely and that nobody gets left behind. The kids are still rejoicing, and at least a few of them, Puck in particular, look distinctly hungover, but Will doesn't want to intrude on their excitement. He settles himself into his seat and focuses on the Skymall catalog without actually absorbing a word of it.

"Are you okay, Mr. Schue?" Finn, behind him, is peering at him over the back of the seat. Will looks up.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm fine. I'm just tired, guys; don't worry about me."

They don't, which is at once comforting and disheartening. Will flips back and forth through the catalog and the in-flight magazine, unable to concentrate on either, until the plane lands in Ohio.

He feels a little more anchored now, clearer-headed, and he makes sure to get the kids all sent home safely. Rachel and Tina and Mike all hug him, and all of them thank him, and it manages to genuinely make him smile.

"Don't forget, Mr. Schue," Puck says. "You promised us hard cider. Don't disappoint us."

"I'll see what I can do," Will assures him. He hadn't, in fact, technically promised them anything alcoholic, but he had promised a pizza party, and it'll be his pleasure to make good on that. Right now, it's the only thing he's got to look forward to. Nationals are over, graduation is impending, and what then? His classroom will be as empty as his bedroom, and the realization of that, one that hadn't even begun to sink in before, hits him like a truck, hard enough to make it difficult to breathe for a moment.

He's not going to give up on Dustin. He's not going to let Dustin force him to give up.

He drives home long enough to toss his suitcase and change his clothes, to grab another bottle of wine just for good measure, and then he heads for Dustin's apartment. He doesn't know when Vocal Adrenaline's flight is supposed to get in, but it doesn't matter. He's still got a key, and he doesn't give a damn if it's creepy to use it.

When Dustin gets through the door half an hour later, struggling with the suitcase and the crutches, Will's there to take them off his hands. "Don't strain yourself," he says. "I got it."

Dustin, for once in his life, seems to be at an utter loss for words. Will doesn't think that's a good thing, but he waits, because he knows Dustin will break the silence soon enough.

"Why are you here?" he asks, his voice completely monotone.

Will stands his ground, looking him in the eye. It's easier when Dustin's on crutches; he's still taller, but he can't loom like he usually does. "We agreed that we were going to talk after Nationals," he says firmly, "and that's what I'm here to do."

He doesn't know what to expect, honestly. Anger, maybe, or derision. Contrition would be nice, but he doubts that's going to happen. What he doesn't expect is for Dustin to look so thoroughly, exhaustedly defeated.

"We didn't agree on anything," Dustin murmurs, dragging himself over to the couch and easing painfully onto it. "You kept saying we were going to talk, like that means anything. 'Talking' could be anything. For all I knew, we could be doing more 'talking' about why I'm Satan incarnate."

"That's not-Dustin, for god's sake. You had to know that's not what I meant." Why would he think that? In Will's mind, it's as if Dustin's being deliberately obtuse. "I'd wanted to talk about _us_."

"You could have been clearer." Dustin rubs his eyes, and doesn't even bother to look up. Will narrows his eyes. "I don't want to talk, Will. I sure as fuck wasn't up for it last night, and today's not any better. I don't have a job, I don't have a car, I don't even have a fucking _spleen_ anymore, and I've got about two months' rent saved up before I lose my apartment too. You really think I feel like dealing with more rejection right now? You think I want to take that risk? If you wanted to get back together after you kicked my ass and got me fired, you would have said so. None of this 'we'll talk about it' bullshit. Forgive me for taking that to mean 'we'll talk about how we had a great run and everything, but I still haven't changed my mind about you.'"

In the two years of their acquaintance, Will's always known Dustin to be the rational one, the calculating one, whose calm, controlled facade never falters for a second except sometimes in the throes of orgasm, or right afterward. Even with Will, Dustin doesn't _do _emotion, and it honestly scares Will that Dustin's voice sounds like it's on the verge of breaking now.

He crosses over to the couch and sits down, reaching up to touch Dustin's face and not letting him pull away. "What I haven't changed my mind about," he says, "is loving you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Dustin does jerk away at that, with the sneering disdain Will knows so perfectly well by now. "You can't just say that, you jackass. You don't mean it; you just think it sounds good because you love that sappy shit."

"Why would I say it if I didn't mean it?" Will demands, ears burning hot.

"Why _would_ you mean it?" Dustin counters, raising his voice for the first time Will can ever remember. "What do we even have in common anymore? We're not even rivals, we're just-I don't even know what we are; you're a winner and I'm an unemployed _bum_. We were _equals _before, okay? Now we're just..." He trails off, putting his face in his hands.

Will's heart aches. He feels, somehow, like this is some fault of his own, some horrible miscommunication on his part, because he doesn't know how else Dustin's understanding of their relationship could be so completely, tragically backwards.

He reaches for Dustin's wrist, pulls his hand away from his face and winds their fingers tightly together. "Listen to me," he says softly. "What we had-it didn't work because we were in the same career field; it worked in _spite_ of that. That was what almost tore us apart, not what kept us together. I don't love you for your choreography, or because you're my rival, or you keep me on my toes, or we can talk about work, or whatever it is you're thinking."

"Well, it's obviously not for my moral fortitude." Dustin's laugh is helpless and humorless. "Why the hell _do _you love me, Will?"

Will has never had to articulate this before. Honestly, he's almost gone out of his way not to think too much about the reasons why he loves Dustin, and god, he's regretting that right now.

"Because you're smart, and funny," he begins. Dustin rolls his eyes with disgust.

"Generic. Not good enough. Try harder."

"Because you make me feel good about myself, like nobody else has before." Will exhales slowly, folding his arms. "You make me think about things differently. You work harder than anyone I've ever known in my life-I swear, Dustin, your ambition is_ inspirational_. You don't give up on anything you want, not ever. You're so unbelievably talented, and it's not fair that you haven't found someone to recognize that and give you what you deserve. You have a voice like an angel; I couldn't ever get tired of listening to you sing. Or singing with you. You don't know how much I've missed that." He knows Dustin's listening, watching him, even if his face is still impassive.

"You're not a bad person," he continues, finally. "I'm sorry I ever said that, Dustin, because it's not true. I saw you, with your kids-when we were reading the results."

Dustin looks away, with a self-deprecating little sound that's barely a sound. He doesn't seem to know what to say. "Honestly," he mumbles, his voice slightly hoarse, "I think I'm going to miss the fuckers."

"I know you will." Will swallows, and reaches for Dustin's hand again. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have...made you jump through hoops to prove yourself."

Dustin shrugs. "You had to make sure you could trust me again. I get it."

"Not like that." Will strokes Dustin's knuckles with his thumb. Dustin flexes his fingers, but doesn't pull away.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," he admits. "About anything."

"For starters," Will says, "you're going to stop worrying about it for the rest of today."

Dustin snorts. "Sure. I'll get right on that."

"You're going to get into bed," Will continues, ignoring the jab, "and make yourself comfortable, and we're going to catch up, take that however you like. You are going to let me make sure your injuries are being taken care of, because you had no business leaving the hospital like that, and you don't have any excuse for neglecting your health now. And then we're going to have dinner, and make mojitos, and listen to some music."

There's a faint smile tugging at the corner of Dustin's lips, even if it fades after a moment. "And after that?" he says, a bit guardedly.

"After that..." Will makes a face, because that is the real question here. Everything is precarious, cautious, susceptible to any wrong moves they might make, but he's determined. And if Dustin wants this, it can still work.

"I don't know," he says. "But I'm not going to set a time limit on it."

Dustin squeezes his hand, with that familiar little half-laugh. "Good enough."


End file.
